100 Ways To Be A Better Father
by TB's LMC
Summary: A collection of 100 short stories at the rate of two per day, all related to a list of 100 ways to be a better father. This is going to be a cornucopia of original ficlets, so I'm giving a blanket warning for everything under the sun. Enjoy! Rated for language, for sure.
1. Ways 1 and 2

_Author's Note: Over in the other fandom that I write consistently for ("Hawaii Five-0 (2010)"), I started doing something fun by taking a list of "100 Ways to…" do something, and turning each "Way" into a short story mostly featuring the two lead characters of that series. It continues to be very popular, so I thought hey, I'd like to do this for my other love!_

_I think I've finally found a list that's suitable for the "Thunderbirds" world, and so with apologies to the Natural Papa website, from which I am borrowing this particular list, I'm going to jump right off the cliff and give this a whirl in this fandom._

_You might find some of these Ways uproariously funny and others simply slices of life. You might find stories that occur way in the past, 'right now' in the present of the series, or way in the future. You might find crackfic in here (meaning something that's intentionally unbelievable or insane) and you might find short stories that should come with hankie warnings (and no, I won't necessarily warn you). Some Ways may be related, most will probably be standalone mini-stories. All in all, it'll be a roller coaster ride, and one that I hope you enjoy. I will post two Ways per day, so you have 50 days of new TB fic on the way!_

_Without further ado, let's see how the Tracys handle "100 Ways to be a Better Father…"_

_WARNING: I am giving a blanket content warning. I have no way of knowing what will or won't appear in each Way right now, but I can tell you that there will most likely be cursing dotted throughout, and since some people get their panties in a twist about that, here's your fair warning!_

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><p><strong>100 WAYS TO BE A BETTER FATHER<strong>

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><p><em>Acknowledgement: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for allowing me to use the name 'Ruth' as Grandma Tracy's first name. I may use it throughout these hundred ways, so this is a blanket acknowledgment!<em>

**Way 1  
>Be present with your children.<strong>

Jeff wasn't around much after Lucy died.

And Ruth couldn't blame her son for it. Not really.

It was hard on Scott. More than on any of the others, and she supposed Jeff knew it, but Scott, well, he'd stood up straight and tall, and just allowed the weight of the world to settle on his shoulders. It'd been obvious from the time he was a toddler that he was a born leader like his father, but at barely nine years of age, it was a tough, tough road to go.

Oh, he hadn't done it alone, of course. There'd been the grandparents on both sides of the family, and all their brothers and sisters, and _their_ children. There'd been so many aunts, uncles and cousins present that three months after the funeral, Grandma – as everyone called her even if she wasn't theirs – had basically sent them all home.

It wasn't that they weren't grateful for the help, but Scott was getting way overwhelmed with everyone coming to him since his dad was MIA, and having to field questions from his little brothers. All the women fawned over Alan and Gordon, of course, and John just handled things in his usual, quiet way, never letting on whether he was sad, happy or anywhere in between.

Virgil anchored Scott, but Scott was in need of a father. Not a little brother. Not a grandmother or grandfather. Not a newborn baby brother who needed constant feedings and diaper changes every couple of hours around the clock. Not when he was trying to keep his grades up at school and everything else.

Ruth sighed at the memories as she let the knitting she'd been doing fall to her lap. She looked up and across the office to where Jeff was seated at his desk, and Scott was seated right next to him on the edge of it, and the two were discussing something or other having to do with International Rescue.

She looked at how they both sat. Looked at the gestures they made. Looked at the way they held themselves…partially born of the same military training, but partially because they were _so_ much alike.

She wasn't sure what they were discussing, but there was as much give as there was take from both men, and Ruth couldn't help but smile at them. Things had been rough after Lucy had left her husband and children far too soon. But things had evened themselves out now, and at thirty years of age, Scott was still the born leader, now in charge of the most amazing organization that had ever existed. Jeff's brainchild…but Scott's baby.

Scott grinned at his dad, who chuckled in response. The love in both men's eyes was something you could almost reach out and touch. Grandma picked her knitting back up and the needles started clacking together again.

No, Jeff wasn't around much in those early years. But he was around now. And he was putting Scott in charge, but he was there to support him in whatever way Scott needed. Making up for lost time, maybe. Or maybe, just being the dad he always would've been had the love of his life not been taken from him.

Either way, Ruth didn't know how she could be more proud of either of them. She looked up to find her son watching her. When he winked, she knew she'd been caught out.

It had taken over twenty years, but Jeff seemed happy, at last.

They _all_ did.

And really, that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 2<br>Heap lavish amounts of praise on your kids.**

If there was one thing Jeff Tracy's parents had taught him, it was to make sure you told someone when they did something well, and also told them when they didn't.

He was raised well, Jeff was, imbued with manners and tact and all those things that help you get along in a man's world. Only thing was, while he knew the right things to say, and could always say them to his Air Force subordinates as well as he could to his wife, Jeff never really quite got the hang of that fine line between wanting to boost your child's self-confidence, and trying to help them do whatever it was they'd done, better.

Especially when 'whatever it was' wound up turning the east wall of the living room into a work of art that more resembled graffiti than Rembrandt.

Ah, Virgil. He'd been early to the crayons and finger paints, and had never really put them down since he was barely a year old. Of course, there'd been the usual fight with the infant-turning-toddler about whether _eating_ the crayons was of equal importance to _drawing_ with them.

Lucy had managed to curtail that particular habit, so Jeff hadn't had to worry his head about it.

And then there was the penchant young three-year old Virgil had for taking said crayons to any available surface throughout the house. This included things such as the dining room tabletop, any piece of wall he could reach, the television screen, the linoleum in the kitchen, the framed photo of Jeff's paternal grandparents that sat on Jeff's dresser top, and – at one point – it also meant that baby Johnny's snow-white hair had turned interesting shades of purple and pink courtesy of watercolors.

Scott had thought that one funny as hell, in spite of his father's scowl.

So when Virgil had announced to one and to all that he was going to attempt his first wall mural, he'd done it on a day when neither his grandmother nor his father were present. Scott had, at first, firmly proclaimed this was _not_ anything he was going to be doing anytime soon. But damn Virgil's puppy dog eyes and extremely effective lower pouting lip, Scott later gently advised him to choose an out-of-the-way wall, and to also choose quite carefully precisely what he'd be painting onto it.

And not to make whatever it was too big, for the love of all that was holy.

Virgil, with the wisdom of one who is halfway between the ages of ten and eleven, waited until his father was gone for twelve days to Florida, and his grandmother was gone six of those twelve days to visit with her ailing sister.

Scott had his hands full with the little ones, and really wasn't paying much attention between bath times and meal times and homework-doing and reading bedtime stories and "Dammit, John, turn off the flashlight and go to sleep!" type of things and feeding the dog – the very same dog Jeff had told Virgil _never_ to dye blue again – and so Scott didn't actually catch on to what Virgil was up to until it was too late to undo it.

Sure, Aunt Lily had been coming over in the evenings to check on them and help Scott get everything handled in the hours between after-school and bedtime ("John, if I have to tell you to stop reading one more time, it's eleven at night!"), but on Saturday, she wouldn't be over because Grandma was coming home just after one in the afternoon, and Scott had assured both her and Aunt Lily he could handle things.

Um…yeah. Not so much.

Grandma's reaction to Virgil's artwork had been one of surprise. At least she hadn't torn him or Virgil a new one. Virgil had already gotten _that _lecture from Scott only twenty minutes earlier.

Ruth Tracy didn't do such a good job of masking her laughter, and while Scott had expected to catch hell for letting Virgil get away with it to begin with, Grandma had instead, with the wisdom that can only come with years, advised Scott to just let it be, as Virgil was only artistically expressing himself and his pride in his family. Scott figured if she'd seen herself on that wall, she'd have thought differently, but he wisely held his tongue.

Young Scott, barely a teenager, wasn't quite so sure his father would see things the easy way Ruth was, but he bowed to his grandmother's wishes, and left it alone.

John asked how come he couldn't paint stars and astronauts on his ceiling when Virgil could paint them all up onto an entire living room wall. Grandma handled that by saying it was only because the ceiling was too high for John to reach.

Which was why Jeff found John teetering precariously on a paint ladder when he got home the next day.

Scott nearly bit his lip clean through when Jeff stepped into the living room, Gordon in one arm and Al in the other.

The thing that was most worrisome was the lack of any sound in the ensuing minutes.

Scott waited.

Grandma winked at him, but it didn't stop the twisting feeling in Scott's gut. Damn, whenever he was upset, it always got him in the stomach.

Jeff walked back out of the living room. Virgil was, as was every younger brother's right, hiding behind Scott. Grandma was cheerily rolling out a pie crust there in the kitchen, while John was scowling with all the put-upon-ness of an eight-year old who thinks he's been wronged in not getting something an older sibling's gotten.

Jeff looked at Scott a moment, then at Virgil, who chose that very moment to peek around Scott's head. John crossed his arms and pouted. Grandma pretended to ignore them. Jeff cleared his throat.

"Son," Jeff said, shifting Gordon and Alan slightly as his arms began to tire, "Virgil?"

Virgil dutifully stepped out from behind his older brother to take his medicine like the responsible (_scared shitless_) young man that he was. "Yes, Father?"

Well, maybe Jeff _had_ learned something over the years after all, about how to compliment and correct at the same time without it ending in tears and slamming doors, because he said:

"Your living room mural is extremely good for someone your age."

Scott's eyes widened in surprise, but not nearly as wide as Virgil's.

"However," Jeff continued. He cleared his throat. "While your grasp of human anatomy is second-to-none, I would suggest perhaps you might want to paint pants onto all of us before your cousins come to visit next Saturday."

Virgil happily agreed.

Grandma told her son he'd handled that very well indeed.

And Jeff, bless him, spent the rest of the evening explaining to John precisely why nude portraits were considered art when done by professional artists, but not so much when it was Dad and his boys on the living room wall of their home…


	2. Ways 3 and 4

**Way 3  
>Focus on the positive when speaking to your children.<strong>

"That wasn't _quite_ what I had in mind…"

Well, maybe Jeff could've handled that better, but all he wanted to do was look at John cross-eyed and say, "Lavender? Really?"

Then again, he _had_ told the boys they could choose their own sash colors. How did he still make mistakes like that after all these years?

He sighed.

"I'm not _entirely_ sure that's necessary…"

So what was he supposed to tell Scott, anyway? That stripes on the tops of their uniform boots to match the sashes, the little stripes on the hats and the stripes 'round their Thunderbirds was a little over the top and not really very military-like at all?

He suspected Tin-Tin was somehow behind all that, but didn't dare call Scott on it. If he was wrong, Scott would think his dad thought he was turning into Alan (Mr. GQ) or something, and just…no.

"That's a very…interesting…viewpoint…"

Right, well, telling Virgil outright that when he'd suggested paintings of all five boys both in and out of uniform, that 'out of uniform' hadn't meant 'in the buff' was maybe closer to the mark, and Jeff had, after all, thought Virgil had left his Naked Tracy Portraits behind in his youth, but…just…no. Not in the damn Lounge, of all places.

Suggesting Virgil rethink how he'd feel if Lady Penelope chanced upon the 'not-on-a-rescue' portraits with them all looking suitably undressed and what she'd do to him if he tried to paint _her_ portrait that way did the trick, however, thank the Fates.

"So you…decided to go with…that."

If John's lavender sash was a bit unnerving, Alan's white one was just plain ridiculous. Blood? Dirt? Hello. Still, he was the baby of the family, and Jeff knew if the kid wanted white, he'd have white whether Jeff liked it or not.

He wondered how long it'd take for Al to realize the shit that he'd get from his grandmother having to bleach the thing constantly was not worth the stubbornness of getting your first color choice.

"Yellow."

There was some irony in it being a 'Yellow Submarine,' Jeff supposed, but this was almost turning farcical rather than life-and-death serious, and he was about at the end of his rope.

But that first day, when the boys lined up in the Lounge for inspection, and John was looking smart and sophisticated in his lavender…and Alan was looking sharp and ready in his white…and the boot stripes actually almost lent an air of uniformity to their ensembles…and Virgil had (thank _God_) repainted off-duty portraits of him and his brothers fully-clothed…

And later, when they went to check out all the 'birds for one final inspection before declaring IR open for business, Jeff did have to admit that having the little sub be yellow made sound sense deep beneath the waves where it was dark…

So all in all, Jeff guessed that telling Scott, "I like the stripes," and telling John, "Looks good," and telling Alan, "Nice contrast," and telling Gordon, "Good call," and telling Virgil, "Much better," was all a damn sight better than IR never starting operations to begin with because of arguments that would turn into fights where six grown men might come to blows over colors and sashes and painted pictures.

He'd learned a long time ago to pick his battles.

One of these days, he would simply _have_ to address Virgil's penchant for wearing ascots and dressing gowns to breakfast, but…one thing at a time.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 4<br>Say I love you. A lot.**

It was something he hadn't said nearly often enough to his own father. And it was a mistake he regretted to his deepest core, to this day.

Jeff had been gone for two years now. He'd lived long enough to see his first grandchild born, but not long enough to hear him talk. See him walk. See him start school.

It's not that their father hadn't been a warm, loving man. He'd just been…well, he'd been Jeff Tracy. He'd give hugs when glad they'd gotten out of sticky situations. He'd say 'I love you' when a situation warranted it in his opinion. But he wasn't overly demonstrative, physically or verbally. His affection came more often in the form of praise for the work they'd done, rather than directly addressing the emotion.

And really, it was fine. They'd all known their father loved them, and it went without saying how much they loved and respected him.

Except it _shouldn't_ have gone without saying.

He should have said it more. They _all_ should have.

So now that Jeff was gone, the victim of a car wreck just like his wife so very many years before, there was one thing Scott Tracy had promised himself the day they'd buried the man who'd started it all.

Little Drew Jefferson Tracy…DJ for short, or _Deej_, as Gordon insisted on calling him…ran across the Lounge at breakneck speed, launching himself into his filthy father's arms just as Scott swung around on the wall, returning from a rather nasty mudslide rescue.

He held the little toddler to him, knowing his mom wouldn't care that the boy would need to shower with his dad in the aftermath of such a messy display of love.

But Scott had learned his lesson the hard way, and as he held DJ in his arms, he kissed his cheek and whispered, "I love you," into his son's ear.

His wife smiled at them, then returned to the kitchen – the boys were always hungry after a long rescue like this. Hungry and tired.

DJ gave Scott a sloppy kiss on the lips and grinned. "I love you too, Daddy."

Scott could see his father in his little boy's eyes more and more as he grew older. And he added silently, as he did each and every time, _I love you, Dad._


	3. Ways 5 and 6

_Author's Note: The paired emotions used in Way 5 were lifted from a Wikipedia article, though I'm sure that article's author got them from somewhere else!_

**Way 5  
>Don't be afraid to show your emotions to your family.<strong>

_Interest and Alarm_

When Gordon brought him a crayon-drawn picture, and patiently explained that the squiggly lines and uneven color-in job represented a dolphin, a mermaid and a sailor on a capsized boat, Jeff was more fascinated by the story Gordon had come up with, than he was by the drawing itself.

And when he got the call that his son was probably going to die before he could make it to the hospital, courtesy of a capsized hydrofoil, every alarm bell in his head went off. He hadn't come this far past Lucy's death to lose one of their boys now.

He showed it by never leaving Gordon's side until he was walking out of that hospital under his own steam.

_Hope and Fear_

When he had desperately wanted to lead the mission to the Moon, he'd piled all his hopes on that one single thing, so that if nothing else, he could force it to come true. What he hadn't known through all the hard work he put into getting to be the astronaut chosen, was that his first glimpse of space wouldn't be the culmination of all _those_ hopes, but instead would prompt him to desperately hope he'd make it home to see his family.

And when he'd gotten the call that Lucy and the kids had been in an accident, and she wasn't expected to make it through the night, fear gripped the heart of Jeff Tracy like nothing he'd ever experienced. The fear being realized left a scar on his heart that never has quite healed.

He showed it by never speaking of Lucille unless asked a direct question about her by one of the boys. Even then, his responses were curt and after a while, they just stopped asking.

_Gratitude and Anger_

Jeff was grateful to the medical team who'd saved the life of his youngest child. Of course he was. But grief had ensured it would be quite some time before he could even bring himself to hold Alan in his arms.

For more years than he cared to admit, Jeff had harbored a secret anger against the Universe, the heavens, the gods, or the one God, no matter which entity or deity anyone chose to believe in, that Lucy had been taken from him, from their boys, too soon. And yet that anger had fueled a dream that now saw the saving of more lives than even _he_ had fathomed when the seed had first been planted in his mind.

He showed it by spoiling Alan a little more than perhaps he should have, and by gathering his boys close to him, as though somehow he could keep his family from falling apart as it had so many years ago, even though he sent his sons out on dangerous rescues that could easily make it happen all over again.

_Joy and Sorrow_

There was nothing like seeing the sense of pride and accomplishment in your sons' faces after their first successful rescue. Nothing like seeing your best friend's face light up when he'd learned his daughter was safe thanks to your sons, and on her way to her new home there on Tracy Island. Nothing like knowing you'd turned your own personal tragedy into a chance for others to live.

And the ones they couldn't save. They just weren't in time, or something went wrong. It happened. It happened to _all_ personnel in any kind of rescue business. Those who protected and served. Those who laid their lives on the line for others. He felt it every time a life was lost. Felt it, and mourned for their loved ones. Because he'd been there.

He showed it by treating his sons with the respect they deserved for having to be on the front lines and witness the devastation and mourning firsthand.

_Pride and Embarrassment_

There was no question that Jeff Tracy felt pride in his entire family. From his mother and her legacy, to what his father had done in serving his country and then turning their farm into the best one in the state. From Scott's service in the Air Force to Virgil's unparalleled artistic and engineering talents. From John's discoveries in space to Gordon's Olympic gold. From Alan's racing wins to _all_ of them for the work they did as International Rescue.

In Jeff's experience, however, there had never been more embarrassing times than those brought about by the antics of his children over the years. Leave it to kids to turn their Air Force Colonel and famous astronaut father's face beet red in five seconds flat. There were certain things that weren't mentioned as a result. Scott 'forgetting' his clothes during a run across Oxford's campus. Virgil's…interesting…entry into a teen art competition. John's too-loud-question in the midst of a quiet and darkened theater about whether the fat lady would be done singing any time soon so he could go home and read his book on black holes. Gordon's small problem with diarrhea from one end of a shoe store to the other when he was but two years of age. Alan's…Christ, there were way too many of those to pick one.

Jeff showed it all by putting his faith in each of his grown sons that their decisions would be sound, their precautions would be adequate and they wouldn't hesitate to always be themselves even though still living together, and with their father, as grown men. And by, every now and then, making damn sure they knew how he felt about each and every one of them.

_Generosity and Avarice_

Generous to a fault, he'd been described by some media moguls like Ned Cook. His companies supported numerous charities; his philanthropy and the legacy of his sons continuing it, knew no bounds. Yet he did it not for accolades, but because underscoring every single thing he and his boys did every single day was compassion. After all, you didn't make billions, only to turn around and spend it selflessly on something like International Rescue, if compassion weren't at the very core of your being.

There were those who called the Tracys greedy, hiding out in the middle of the South Pacific, keeping themselves out of the public eye, amassing more and more and more money. Sure, they had foundations and grants and charities galore that they spent on, but Jeff was very nearly the richest man in the world, and so nagging tongues would always wag, just to try and get a rise out of the patriarch or one of his family members. And the one thing that could prove just how greedy the Tracys were _not_, was their most closely guarded secret.

Jeff showed it through the public work he did, but most of all through the private work with his sons and International Rescue. Maybe one day the world would be able to know; maybe one day the sons, grandsons or great-grandsons of the former astronaut could come clean to the world. Until then, Jeff was content simply that they existed at all.

_Sympathy and Cruelty_

When he'd watched Scott make the difficult decision to leave the Air Force for International Rescue, he'd felt for him, knowing what it was like to work that hard and climb the ranks. When he'd watched Virgil have to leave a very serious relationship behind for International Rescue, he'd hurt for him, knowing loss of love all too keenly. When he'd watched John's manfully wet-eyed reaction to Thunderbird 5 as he stepped on-board the very first time she was fully operational, he smiled for him, knowing how awe-inspiring and exciting it was to be able to live surrounded by the beauty of space. When he'd watched Gordon take his first steps after the hydrofoil accident, he'd felt the pain etched in every line on Gordon's face, yet also felt the determination in every cell of the young man's body, because he never gave up, no matter what the cost. And when he'd watched Alan cry real, sobbing tears after a horrible falling out with Tin-Tin, his heart ached for his youngest, and for all the tears that were probably still to come in his life.

If there was one thing Jeff Tracy could not abide, it was cruelty. He lavished battered women's and children's programs with great attention and funding. He gave to pet shelters and animal control services to keep helpless animals from being abused. He gave and gave, his one wish that man would no longer do harm to their fellow man or the animals who trusted them. And pursued by a man whose sole intent was to do just that, he dedicated vast resources to the tracking down and elimination of the Hood. He'd seen the pain in Kyrano's eyes when he'd spoken of some of his half-brother's deeds, and it was a pain that ached deep in Jeff's gut because he could never take it away.

He showed it all by continuing to give. Continuing to give shelter, inventions, jobs, protection, money. It never really occurred to him that sometimes he demonstrated more love for those he didn't know, than he demonstrated within the walls of his own house. Painful truths, all leading to…

_Love and Hate_

Maybe he didn't say it enough. Maybe he did. But ask any son of Jeff Tracy's, and you would know none doubted how much their father loved them. And Jeff had _so_ much love to give, that he did. Continuously. The world over, and reaching out into space. Every time his five most treasured creations left home to save lives, Jeff's heart went with them, beat by sometimes terrified beat.

Maybe it was wrong to hate. Maybe it wasn't. But Jeff would never stop hating the driver who'd caused the accident that killed his wife. He could never stop hating the Hood for the misdeeds to his own half-brother, his own half-niece, and faceless, nameless people all over the world he'd wronged over the years. He could never stop hating the fact that no matter _how_ much money he had, _how_ advanced their technology was, _how_ hard his boys tried, there would always be people they couldn't save. And he would never stop hating the fact that as much as he tried to keep his family together, preserved as one unit so they'd never be torn asunder again, the very nature of what they did meant one day, it might happen no matter how careful they were.

He showed it by continuing to live the only way he knew how. And if every now and then his sons, all taller than him, were surprised by an unexpected hug or the squeeze of a hand on their shoulders, none of them ever questioned why their dad felt the need to do it. And none of them hesitated to do it in return.

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><p><strong>Way 6<br>Work on improving your relationship with your wife or partner.**

Things weren't going that great with Penny, okay?

It's not that Jeff's a workaholic, dammit, no matter what Penny says. Or his own mother. Or Virgil. And it doesn't matter that even Kyrano's been after him about it, though not in so many words.

They're all _wrong_, got it?

Right.

So Penny. She wants to fly off here and there and everywhere. Lord knows between the two of them, they've got more money than the Almighty, so it's not a matter of whether it should be spent.

And quite honestly, Jeff's one vacation to Bonga Bonga since International Rescue had started operating hadn't been exactly relaxing, after all.

Never mind that said vacation was three years ago.

Hey, he gets off-island! There's trips to Manhattan to tend to Corp business, there's trips all over the world to see about various metals and parts and experiments and…what? _What?_

Fine.

So maybe everything he does has to do with business, whether IR or the corporation. So what of it? You don't think billions got made under their own steam, do you? It's not like money is fruitful and multiplies.

And…International Rescue costs a _lot_. There's no Return On Investment for that one, not in monetary terms anyway. Plus things have to be _looked after_, and Jeff's the man to do it.

So enough with the workaholic business. He's got a meeting to go to.

Except for one thing he never reckoned on: a very stubborn, very opinionated, _very_ beautiful woman who's decided she _wants_.

Wants _him_.

All right, so maybe John can take this meeting.

And maybe Scott can handle the acquisition of that new quadratanium formula.

And maybe between Gordon and Virgil, they can oversee Four's refit.

And perhaps Tin-Tin won't mind so much helping Alan finish the storage room reorganization.

After all, it isn't every day a completely naked Lady of British Aristocracy shows up at your bedroom suite wearing a tiny little bathrobe that leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination.

He'll ignore the smirk from Kyrano down the hall as he lets her in, because hey, he's a _man_, after all.

And she's…whoa.

For the first time in years, Jeff thinks maybe work's a little overrated…


	4. Ways 7 and 8

**Way 7  
>Take time out from work for family time.<strong>

It had been a long, long month at the space agency.

He was exhausted.

He crept into the house and all the way up to his room without stopping. All he wanted was to be asleep before his head hit the pillow.

But first he checked each and every room. After all, it'd been a _month_ since he'd seen his boys in the flesh.

Scott's and Virgil's room. Both asleep, sawing logs.

John's room. Sleeping silently, blankets covering all but his head.

Gordon's and Alan's room. Alan snuggled into Gordon's side as so often he was, rather than in his own bed.

Aunt Lily asleep in the same bed as his mother.

All was well in the Tracy home.

Jeff went to his room, peeled off everything but his briefs, and threw on a pair of sweatpants and the first tee shirt he could lay his hands on.

He pulled back the covers and slid into bed, sighing happily when his head hit the pillow.

The clock said it was 2:10 a.m.

He closed his eyes.

* * *

><p>"Jeff must be back, his suitcase is by the front door." Ruth Tracy led Aunt Lily back up the stairs. None of the boys were in their rooms, so the women figured they must be up and outside already.<p>

Aunt Lily gently tapped on Jeff's closed bedroom door. There was no answer.

Ruth turned the knob and opened it. She smiled at what she saw.

Jeff was in the middle of the bed.

Four-year old Alan was nestled into the crook of his right arm. Five-year old Gordon was nestled into his left.

Seven-year old Johnny's head and chest were draped across Jeff's stomach and hips.

Nine-year old Virgil's head was on his father's left thigh.

Twelve-year old Scott was curled into Virgil, head against his chest, hand on their father's ankle.

Ruth quietly closed the door and beckoned Aunt Lily to follow her back down the stairs. All her family members were content, and more importantly, together. When they woke, they'd be hungry.

But for now, those boys needed their dad. And their dad, she was pretty sure, needed them just as much.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Thank you to Samantha Winchester for her generosity in allowing me to use the name Rosemary for Jeff's assistant – first used in her TB story "Secrets and Lies."<em>

**Way 8  
>Laugh at yourself. All the time.<strong>

Jefferson Grant Tracy was not perfect.

He never actually claimed to be, but he liked to give off the vibe that he was. If for no other reason, than to get other business people to trust him.

But then, no matter how hard he tried, something always seemed to happen to not only remind _him_ that he wasn't perfect, but also to point it out very vividly to those around him.

The first time it happened, he was absolutely mortified. Never mind that everyone else understood a one-and-a-half year old suddenly starting to spew like he was the girl in _The Exorcist_ courtesy of a twenty-four hour stomach virus.

It didn't help that said spewing occurred in the very same office Jeff was meant to be meeting with aerospace engineers in. It had left the office a disgusting, smelly mess.

He never took his younger sons to work with him again after that. He was a man who only needed one lesson to learn something, and learn it well.

And then there was the time he was dressed for a high-powered business meeting, and got all the way to the office and into the conference room before his wonderful assistant, Rosemary, suddenly burst in, wide-eyed, and whispered some words into his ear.

He supposed he was glad she'd noticed the dried peanut butter down the right arm of his suit jacket before she'd ushered the other attendees in, and he'd had to spend the meeting in shirt and tie sans jacket, but all-in-all he called it a win.

Rosemary never had been able to get the dry cleaner to remove the peanut butter from that jacket. Something about peanut oil and silk.

So he took the kids to the office with him whether he wanted to or not, was the long and short of it.

And then, probably his favorite, was the day he was in the midst of working from home, and had to get on a video conference call with a couple guys in Japan. He wound up taking the call from his study in the early hours of a Saturday morning, leaving strict instructions with Scott that he was not to be disturbed for the duration.

Of course, things never went the way they were supposed to.

A completely naked little Alan, a paint-covered Virgil and a bit of a foodfight later, Jeff found that his Japanese counterparts were not only willing to share their work with him and go in together on this latest project he wanted to launch, but were laughing heartily and congratulating him for being able to be a father and a good businessman at the same time.

Ultimately, Jeff had to laugh at that, thank his kids for providing the extra oomph he needed to secure the deal, and then scold them for being such…_boys_.

But nothing that had come before compared to the moment Jeff now found himself in. At nearly seventy years of age, the antics of children were long in the past, and it'd literally been years since there had been anything on Jeff's radar that might cause him to worry about his image.

He was now considering the fact that perhaps he'd gone soft. After all, just because they were grown, accomplished men, didn't mean they weren't still his boys.

When he met Gordon, Alan and Tin-Tin down at the pool for their ritual morning laps, nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

When the boys insisted he dive in first, he simply thought they were just giving the old man some respect.

When he emerged from the pool four laps later to grab a sip of water, and was confronted by Tin-Tin's horrified face and his sons' barely-concealed laughter, he knew he'd just been had somehow.

He attended that afternoon's video conference call with his Vice Presidents, tinted blue from head to toe.

A week later, Gordon and Alan had to perform a rescue tinted pink.

Jeff had learned to laugh at himself over the years. But it was way more fun to laugh at the young men who thought they could get away with _anything_ when Jeff Tracy was their father.


	5. Ways 9 and 10

**Way 9  
>Listen to your kids with all of your attention.<strong>

Jeff was always distracted by one thing or another. It was the curse of having too much going on at any one time.

Normal people wouldn't have been able to build a conglomerate of ridiculously successful, profitable businesses while a single parent to five kids.

But normal people didn't have Jeff's extended family, nor did they have an eldest like Scott, who had inherited Jeff's penchant for serious multi-tasking.

Besides the fact that doing what he was doing with Tracy Aerospace kept him away from the house and even out-of-state for a good part of every month, the major consequence of having so much on his plate was that even when he _was_ home, his mind wasn't always on what his kids were saying to him.

It was how he'd missed the fact that John had been in a nasty fistfight at school.

It was how he'd missed the fact that Scott had wound up pounding the idiot John had gotten into a fight with, into the pavement outside the school's front doors.

It was how he'd missed the fact that Virgil had basically played nursemaid to both Scott's and John's wounds so well, that even Ruth hadn't known there'd been a fight at all, what with Scott fielding all the calls from school.

Of course, Scott and Virgil and John had all forgotten the fact that the school had their dad's cell phone number.

So the next time Jeff got them on the vidphone, three nights after the fight had taken place, it was with a slightly pissed off expression that he greeted his three oldest boys. Never one to beat around the bush, Jeff asked what the _hell_ they'd all been thinking, though he saved the more severe tongue-lashing for later, when he would have Scott alone, rather than in front of his brothers.

The boys hadn't really had a decent response, Virgil, of course, guilty for aiding and abetting.

So Jeff had lectured them.

And scolded them.

But the straw that eventually broke the camel's back came with what Jeff intended to be his final words to the three of them on the matter.

"Next time you're having trouble with someone, let me know about it so we can talk about the best way to handle it!"

John's brilliant blue eyes had turned cloudy as he'd stared incredulously at his father's visage on the small monitor.

"What?" Jeff had asked.

"Dad, I came to you about Alec Thompson three _weeks_ ago, the last time you were home!"

Jeff stared blankly at him.

"I told you what he'd been up to, and asked what I should do about it!"

Scott hadn't even known this, and his eyes widened. Virgil just looked at the floor.

"You told me to handle it however I saw fit!"

Well, now Jeff felt like an ass, because not only did he not remember having any such conversation with his middle son, but he also couldn't believe he'd given that sort of crap response as advice.

"I wasn't going to do _any_thing, but then he caught me after school and started in again, and I couldn't help it. I _had_ to hit him, Dad, for what he said to me."

Jeff swallowed convulsively.

And after spending fifteen minutes apologizing to all three boys, and then sending the older two away so he could talk with John for yet another hour after that, Jeff never missed a thing his sons did or said to him or around him, ever again.

He also told the principal of John's school that if he even _thought_ about suspending the boy, he'd have his head.

There were advantages to being the prized astronaut of their tiny town, after all.

But, Jeff realized, there were even _more_ advantages to listening to those you loved most, and giving your full attention to them when they needed you. One of which was that John and Scott wouldn't need to have Virgil apply their grandmother's makeup to their black eyes anymore.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 10<br>Learn new things by teaching your children about them.**

Erm…

Uh…

Well, shit.

Jeff really wasn't, uh…prepared for, um…questions like this.

He'd known, of course, that his sons would test the limits of his knowledge from time to time as they grew.

He also actually did know the answer to this particular question being posed by his two youngest.

The problem was actually _answering_ it.

So he told them he had a meeting and would get back to them about it.

He was actually surprised they'd come to him at all, really. He would've expected a question such as this would've gone naturally in Scott's direction. Or at the very least, in Virgil's. Because really, who approached their dad with things like this?

Problem was, he'd lied about the meeting. And he felt bad lying to Al and Gordo, but…well, shit.

So an hour later, when the boys approached his study again and demanded to know if his meeting was over, he had to tell them yes. He had to let them come in.

He had to answer the damn question.

And he just prayed he'd done it all right because…shit.

Later that night, though, he got the idea maybe he hadn't when Scott sauntered out into the living room where he was seated on the couch with his laptop catching up on email, sat down next to him, cleared his throat, and asked, "Dad, got a minute?"

"Sure, Scott, what's up?" Jeff replied, shutting his laptop and turning his full attention to the eighteen-year old.

"You, uh…" And why did Scott suddenly have bright spots of pink on his high cheekbones? "You wouldn't have any idea why Gordon and Alan asked me a question about my 'back door,' would you?"

And that was how Jeff wound up explaining to his eldest just what Gordon and Alan had asked him, as well as how he'd worded his response.

"Epic fail," was how Scott had labeled it after gales of what Jeff felt was completely unwarranted laughter.

Scott promised to clear things up with the two youngest, and also advised his father to maybe just shoo the boys to him next time the question of "How do Kenny Calbot's two daddies make babies?" or anything even remotely like it came up.

Then he asked if Jeff wanted to hear the explanation he was going to give.

Jeff had told him to go to bed. Which he considered pretty nice considering he'd wanted to tell his boy to go to hell.

Damn kids.

Jeff scowled about that one for weeks.

He never did find out how exactly Scott had explained it to them. And really, he was okay with that.


	6. Ways 11 and 12

**Way 11  
>Start a personal journal.<strong>

_July 6, 2031_

_It's Day One of my convalescence. I can't say I mind it all that much, what with Mother and the boys waiting on me hand and foot. I've got plenty to read, I've got my laptop and my vidphone, so I can still work. And the quiet of my suite is soothing, to a background of the sound of waves coming in through the balcony doors. I think I might not mind this broken leg so much after all._

_July 7, 2031_

_So here we are on Day Two, and I've already had to have a conversation with Mother about checking on me every hour, on the hour. I get it, really, I do – she's always been a little overprotective, but to be at it all night, too? It's just a broken leg, I told her. Unlike in your day, these things almost completely heal in two weeks with current technology. This did not sit well with her. Then she got angry as hell when I finally locked my suite door at three a.m. Can you blame me? How am I supposed to get better with her waking me up all night?_

_July 8, 2031_

_Well, the boys went out on their first rescue since my accident, today. They were gone for ten-and-one-half hours, and I coordinated things all right from here, with a lot of help from John on Thunderbird 5. I must say, one of the benefits of needing his help so much as the rest of the boys were out there in the thick of things, is getting to spend a lot of one-on-one time with him even when he's so far away. _

_Addendum: I had to lock Mother out again at midnight. I'm a little afraid to unlock the door in the morning. She might try to use my casted leg to brain me._

_July 9, 2031_

_The boys slept in this morning. They were exhausted from the rescue yesterday. I unlocked my suite door and I swear Mother has some sort of secret sensor honed in on it, because damned if she wasn't by my side chewing me out and checking me over like I could've killed myself locked alone in here or something. I can't even get out of bed, so I don't know what she thinks is going to happen. And the catheter machine Brains invented keeps anyone from having to physically do anything to empty it, so really, I do not get what her issue is here._

_July 10, 2031_

_It's two in the afternoon and I've already had to lock Mother out. Scott came by, and I let him in, then locked it right back up behind him. He says his grandmother's royally pissed off at me and has already asked both Brains and Alan to pick the electronic lock. Neither would, thank God. When Scott asked why I'd locked my own mother out, when all she's doing is worrying about her son, I didn't have the guts to tell him it was because she wanted to give me a sponge bath. I don't care what anyone says. You reach a certain age, you do not want your mother seeing things best kept under wraps, if you catch my drift._

_July 11, 2031_

_Scratch that earlier entry. My mother isn't going to use my cast to kill me, she's just going to do it with her bare hands. Why? Because Penelope came to the island today, and not only did I let her into my suite, but I let her give me a sponge bath, too. Well, there was a little more involved than that, but that's the sort of thing you also don't reveal to your mother. For some reason, Gordon couldn't stop laughing the entire time he and Alan were in here talking to me about making some changes to Thunderbird 4. Why do I feel like I'm missing out on so much locked away in my suite?_

_July 12, 2031_

_Day 7 of my imprisonment. That's what it's become. Penny had to go, and that made me grumpy, all right, I'll admit it. Then the physical therapist came and my mother hovered over me like a mad hen the entire time, then told me she'd be back that evening with my dinner and that if I locked her out again she'd see to it that my good leg soon matched my bad one. Sometimes I wonder how I made it through childhood with that woman unscathed._

_July 13, 2031_

_If age doesn't kill her, I will. I'm serious. It's not even funny anymore. My boys refuse to help me in any way because they know the Wrath of Ruth as well as I do, and here I am pretty helpless and stuck in my bed without any defense against my mother treating me like I'm six. I'm a grown man with five grown sons! I do not get this at all. There is nothing to worry about, I'm already able to hop into a hover chair by myself and maneuver my way out of the room, but now she's forcing me to stay in bed to heal faster. Seriously, I'm going to kill her._

_July 14, 2031_

_Perhaps I shouldn't have been so impulsive…_

_July 15, 2031_

_I told the boys I have no idea where their grandmother went._

_July 16, 2031_

_I actually took my first steps today! I kind of regret my mother wasn't here to see them. Only kind of._

_July 17, 2031_

_I'm really starting to miss Mother's cooking. I'm thinking I may have acted a bit too hastily, in the heat of the moment. But that's always how those things happen, isn't it?_

_July 18, 2031_

_I think Scott's getting suspicious. I really hope I don't have to do anything drastic to silence him._

_July 19, 2031_

_Oh, well. I suppose it had to come to this sooner or later. The truth's out now because Scott's a relentless bastard, dog with a bone, and wheedled it out of me. On the plus side, I'm walking quite well and due to get the cast off next week, headed for a walking splint._

_July 20, 2031_

_Mother just came back from spending a month with her sister today. I'm still trying to figure out why, after she got out of the jet and came up to the villa, Virgil told John he could stop scanning the island for shallow graves._

_July 21, 2031_

_She's at it again._

_July 23, 2031_

_I've been healed up for nearly two weeks, but the way she acts, you'd think I was an invalid!_

_July 24, 2031_

_She won't leave me alone, swears my leg doesn't look healthy._

_July 25, 2031_

_She brought me chicken broth at four a.m. I didn't have anything handy to brain her with._

_July 26, 2031_

_Scott thinks I look worse than I did right after I broke my leg. I think he's right. And I think it's my mother's fault._

_July 27, 2031_

_I can't sleep. She won't let me sleep!_

_July 28, 2031_

_They'll never find the body…_

* * *

><p><strong>Way 12<br>Hold your kids accountable for their actions and words, but don't use punishment to teach.**

Meor sighed and considered how it had come to this moment.

In his youth, he had liked to have good times with the best of them, and as the son of the wealthy owner of a conglomerate of rubber plantations, he had the means and the opportunity to do just that.

But all too often, Meor's attempts at having any sort of good time at _all_ were waylaid by his younger half-brother, fathered by the man his mother had married a decade earlier. Truly, the child was nothing but trouble. Period.

At the age of two, toddler Belah had managed to conjure up a micro-demon. It had taken their mother, Nur Aisyah, two days to return the miniature pest to wherever it had come from, and Belah's punishment had been a binding spell which kept him from being able to do _anything_ magickal for two whole weeks.

It had been the most peaceful two weeks of five-year old Meor Kyrano's life since his half-brother had been born.

And then there was the time when Belah was around six, and had already started attending the same private school as his older half-brother, when the youngster thought it would be a good idea to burn the school down because his teacher had dared admonish him for his behavior during class.

It didn't seem to matter to little Belah that letting a dozen imps loose with instructions to _Tahap bangunan dengan nyalaan!_ – or Level the building with flame! – might be a bit of an extreme response to being chastised for talking during reading time.

Yet another binding spell from Nur Aisyah had forced Belah to go two _months_ without the ability to use the gifts he'd inherited from her.

At nine years of age, Meor had enjoyed the respite from his sibling's daily pranks.

The problem, he now thought as he looked back on the life he had shared with his mother, stepfather and half-brother for those few years, was simply that Nur Aisyah's gentle consequences in the face of Belah's increasingly dangerous practices were ineffective at best. At worst, it just encouraged him to escalate not only the frequency, but the complexity of his wrongdoings.

Which was why, at the tender age of twelve, Belah's reaction to Nur Aisyah suggesting a more severe punishment for having caused two classmates to be injured with the help of a felled seraph he'd managed to latch onto, resulted in Belah murdering his own mother.

_Meor's_ mother.

It wasn't until hours later, when Belah had disappeared and Meor had been taken in by an uncle, that he learned his stepfather had died several hours earlier. The next many years had been dark and unhappy until he'd met Serena, gotten married and started a family.

Then that, too, had gone by the wayside as she left him for the half-brother he had, by then, not seen in many years. Meor tried, after having to take full responsibility for his own daughter, to not make the same mistakes with her, that his own mother had made with Belah.

And while he was convinced part of the problem was that Belah was born truly evil, and that no amount of punishment equal to the crime would have deterred his downward spiral into criminal behavior, Meor was not one to take chances.

His daughter, born pure of soul, did still have far too much of her gold-digging mother in her to be truly safe from straddling or, worse yet, completely landing on the other side of, the fence. Also, Meor chose not to teach his Tin-Tin to use the gifts she was born with, lest she become incensed with one of her many male admirers and choose to use her power against him.

Of course, Meor not telling Tin-Tin anything about what she could do, didn't keep her from accidentally starting a fire in the wastebasket when she was four. It didn't keep her from levitating out the window of their eighteenth-story apartment in Berlin when she was eight. And at age fourteen, it didn't keep her from destroying a priceless Ming vase when she got so angry she shattered everything breakable in the Ancient Chinese room of a British museum they were visiting with little more than a thought. (Teenage female hormones, Meor had discovered, were truly one of life's unpleasantries.)

But Tin-Tin never really realized she was the one who'd caused these things, and given that she was much more interested in fashion and boys and her figure - and eventually engineering - than she was in ancient mystical secrets anyway, it seemed to work out just fine in the end.

Meor sighed once again, and shook his head, because right here and right now, in the present, he was definitely second-guessing his decision not to teach her how to control what she had the latent ability to do.

He wondered briefly what precisely Virgil had done to Tin-Tin to get her that mad, and then considered it was probably best he did not know. Meor could only hope that the second eldest of Jeff Tracy wouldn't physically toss the Kyranos off the island when he discovered Thunderbird 2 was now a Penelope shade of pink that would probably _never_ come off.


	7. Ways 13 and 14

**Way 13  
>Leave your watch and daytimer on your desk sometimes.<strong>

Trying to take down International Rescue at the same time as you are attempting to get your hands on the secrets that make their Thunderbirds go, is a bitch.

What's even worse, is that he's decided to finally get himself into a…he squeezes his eyes shut as though in physical pain…_relationship_. So he ditches the whole To Do list (every one of which's twenty items, by the way, starts with 'Get International Rescue…") and focuses every bit of his attention not on stealing secrets and taking down the Tracys, but on finding a woman.

Not because he particularly feels the need to be 'in love' or any such nonsense, but simply for the sake of having an heir. A _legal_ heir. He searches the world high and low for two years before finally settling upon a female with the characteristics he desires.

From there on out it is simply a matter of mesmerizing her to do his will. Easy enough. What? Why are you looking at him like that, he wants to know. This is how he does things because he really doesn't know any better.

The problem with that whole scenario, is that the woman is then unable to conceive while under his spell, and who knew, right? So then he has to undo the whole eye-control thing (no, they don't glow, that is nothing more than a special effect for television, got it?), put the woman back where she came from, and go at it in a more…traditional way.

He is a little mystified initially as to why the whole order-her-to-marry-me approach doesn't work with the next one. He winds up having to find yet another female, and settles for the one who'd been third down on the list from the start.

And he is realizing he barely knows what day it is anymore, because all of this is seriously eating into his 'Get International Rescue' time, dammit. Oh, how he longs for the days he used to sit at his desk plotting their demise.

He sighs again.

With the third female, he does a little better. He actually asks her out on a date, and doesn't try to abscond with her until afterward when he is supposedly dropping her off back at her place. Unfortunately, she's wearing heels and he leaves the house's front stoop doubled over and in a ridiculous amount of pain.

Once recovered (some four hours later), he phones his second-in-command to seek his counsel, and is promptly given the rundown on something called 'wooing.' It sounds stupidly infantile to him, but he is assured by Chang that it will indeed be the best course of action should he actually want a woman to remain with him of her own free will.

"Free will? What the hell is that? I don't do what anyone tells me to do, and everyone else that isn't me does what I tell them to do. What is this free will of which you speak?"

Chang tells him it will work.

And so he goes to the fourth female on the list, and she actually seems to like him – a concept with which he is wholly unfamiliar – to the point where he cracks a _smile_.

This wooing business is dangerous to his mental health, he decides. He can turn on the charm like nobody's business, but for hours at a _time_? Ugh.

At any rate, he follows through on Chang's instructions, and after six weeks of 'dates' to such irritable destinations as a museum, a park and…heaven help him…a movie theater, he decides he's had enough of the wooing.

So he buys the biggest, most expensive and ostentatious ring he can find, and tells the woman to marry him and join him in Malaysia.

She actually _does_. Ha, easier than Chang made it sound, right?

Not so much.

He leans forward in his gilded throne, elbows digging into his thighs, and rubs his temples. He's been putting a lot of thought lately into whether having an heir is worth this…this…aggravation is a good word. Because—

"_BELAH!_"

His head snaps up, eyes wide and round. Any other person, he would've killed. But she is _loved_ by all the slaves in his temple, all those who work for him, _and_ she is pregnant with his _children_.

You heard that right. Plural. Twins.

Twin…_girls_.

He'd been after a son! An heir! Someone to carry on his heinous acts when he finally got caught with his foot in Death's door.

But no.

What he gets instead: a high maintenance _wife_, and two infant _females_ due in two months. Which means that Giselle probably wants a burger smothered with ice cream right about now and you know what? When you're in the Malaysian jungle, neither a Baskin Robbins nor a Burger King is easy to get to, okay?

So he does what men for thousands of years before his time, and men of the future would still undoubtedly do thousands of years from now: he runs.

"_BELAH!_"

Her voice fades behind him as he flees into the jungle, two guards quickly flanking him as they always do when he leaves the confines of his haven.

Correction: his _former_ haven.

He wonders, as they lose themselves under the too-green canopy just as the light starts to wan, what the eternal penalty is for doing in your wife and kids. And suddenly understands why men actually _do_ that.

He has to face facts here. He really isn't cut out to be a husband _or_ a father. Because three squalling, wailing, demanding females, and he'll be on a bullet train to the nearest demonic dimension, happily signing over his soul for eternity. He knows this deep in his bones.

And that is how, ultimately, International Rescue catches the Hood and puts him in jail and out of their lives forever, because Giselle?

Well, when he informs her he is seeking a divorce, she goes nuts, tells every press agency from Kuala Lumpur to New York who he is, and the next thing he knows, Scott Tracy is hovering over the temple in Thunderbird 1 with a whole shitload of missiles ready to fire and when the _hell_ had they armed that bird with that many teeth, anyway?

All in all, he decides prison is a much better deal than a family, hands-down. Besides, between the broken wooden spoon handle and the little coil of spring from his metal cot, he's working on an escape plan, which will be closely followed by a permanent face change and a new identity so the evil mother of his equally evil daughters never finds him.

He just hopes Giselle and the brats remember to feed his favorite dragon while he is behind bars…for the next five hundred and fourteen years…

* * *

><p><strong>Way 14<br>Make a meal for your family.**

Scott can cook!

As long as no heat is involved, that is.

Virgil is an excellent chef!

If you don't mind spending half a day cleaning up after he's through.

John is smart enough to not even volunteer for the job.

Gordon makes a mean bowl of cereal, and has been known to _not_ burn toast on occasion.

The real surprise, and of course source of endless teasing for the youngest Tracy (like those damnable older brothers of his need _more_ ammunition, thanks much) is that Alan can cook.

With heat.

Without a mess.

And he volunteers to on a regular basis.

And? He _never_ burns toast.

So Tin-Tin gloms onto him like he's the second coming of Christ and that has the unfortunate (in his brothers' eyes, of course) result of Alan _acting_ like he's the second coming of Christ, and really, they have no right to complain when they not only _eat_ his meals, but eat so _much_ of the food at each sitting, that there are never leftovers!

Plus Kyrano gets to go on vacation, finally.

Leaving his daughter alone on the island with Alan.

And the other boys, of course, but hey, they're well-bred men with good manners and they don't go dipping in another man's honey pot, okay?

So while this is something Alan is grateful for, for the duration of Kyrano's vacation, at least, he quickly learns (the hard way) the one truth that he now understands his poor father was trying to get through his thick blond skull for so many years. What truth is that, you ask? Quite simply put: If you can't take the heat, get out of the kitchen.

Now, Alan miserably understands that 'heat' means the reactions of both Jeff and Kyrano when he and Tin-Tin announce they've sort of made an 'oops' that is going to result in both men's first grandchild.

And all because of cooking.

Alan decides two things right then and there: he is never going to cook again.

Oh, the second thing?

Well, once Tin-Tin hears the first thing, she threatens to remove a very important part of his anatomy.

So the second thing he decides is that he will continue to cook for her and their kid…and the entire family, by way of a continuous apology for, like, the rest of his life.

So now he knows why Scott doesn't do heat.

And why Virgil is such a mess.

And why John just doesn't even _go_ there.

And why Gordon limits his options to cereal and quasi-burnt toast that nobody else wants.

Why couldn't his father have just told him what would happen if he cooked? _Why?_

Jeff will swear to his dying day that he did _not _answerthat question with, "Well, I had to get grandkids _some_how."


	8. Ways 15 and 16

**Way 15  
>Do something wacky and unpredictable in front of your kids.<strong>

The kids crowded around the pool, but not a one of them got in.

Not even Gordon, the water baby.

What the hell good was living in Florida and having a pool in your backyard if your dad never kept his promise to play _with_ you?

He'd said he would be home in time to join them for an afternoon swim on this hot July day. He'd _said_!

But he wasn't, and Grandma standing at the back door looking sadly over the group of them all in their swim trunks with dry towels stacked on the nearby lounges and chairs didn't help matters any.

They didn't want Grandma's pity. They wanted their dad to be here for once.

Like he said he would.

Then…an out-of-place sound.

The first to hear it was Virgil. As the eldest still left at home, he'd taken over the role of protector of the pack, whether he wanted the job or not.

Then John heard it and put down his e-reader on the table long enough to look around and try to pinpoint where it was coming from.

It was Gordon who first saw what it was.

Or rather, _who_.

"Oh, my _God_," Grandma breathed, stepping all the way outside, her face turned up to the sky just as those of all four boys were.

"_Daddy_!" Alan exclaimed as Jeff _flew_ overhead making one pass, then two, and then a third before finally coming to a hovering stop over the kidney-shaped pool.

Gordon and Alan were reaching up, wanting a ride.

John was carefully studying the apparatus strapped to their father's back.

Virgil's eyes were getting wider and wider as he realized Jeff was _undoing_ that strap.

The engine of the miniature and apparently disposable jet pack cut off and Jeff went plunging into the water, still fully clothed in his dress shoes, socks, suit pants and button-down short-sleeved shirt.

At least he'd ditched the tie.

Alan crowed like Peter Pan and leapt into the pool after his father as John fished the used-up jetpack out of the pool.

Gordon followed Alan with a cannonball that would've put a real one to shame.

John looked at Virgil.

Virgil looked at John.

Their father surfaced as John laid the jetpack down on the concrete.

Alan and Gordon excitedly babbled questions as their father laughed heartily.

John and Virgil jumped.

It was several seconds before Jeff surfaced again.

Ruth clucked her tongue as one by one the boys helped their father get stripped down to the swim trunks he'd obviously been wearing all day under his work clothes.

But she couldn't wipe the grin off her face at the horseplay, and the look of sheer joy on four young faces.

Leave it to Jeff to decide that keeping a promise meant doing it in style, in a way only he could.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 16<br>Spend some time one-on-one with your child.**

Jeff moved forward in the darkness of their room.

_His_ room.

A tiny baby boy lay in the cradle. Hand-carved, made by Jeff's own great-great-grandfather, the Tracy family cradle had been passed down from generation to generation. In Jeff's own home, it had held his sons one-by-one, amidst the joy of being a first-time parent, then a second-time one.

Then a third.

And then a fourth.

Now, the worn but polished and still-beautiful wooden creation held their fifth.

_His_ fifth.

It was the very first night Jeff had agreed for little Alan to be placed in their room – _his_ room.

Two months, and he still couldn't bring himself to remember she was gone until the thought had come and it became too painfully obvious that there was no more _their_ or _theirs_.

Of course, the boys would always be their children, but even thinking a word as randomly generic as that, drove the dagger still further into what was left of his heart.

Jeff turned on the small lamp atop the tall dresser. It bathed their room – _his_ room – in its soft-light glow. Nestled into blue and yellow blankets, some as old as Jeff himself and some as new as when Lucy had bought them two months before—

He choked out a sob and sank to his knees at his infant son's side. He didn't touch the cradle, for fear of startling the child, who had finally fallen asleep after three hours of feeding, burping, changing, and wanting to be held and rocked and comforted.

Because the baby missed the one he'd grown inside of. Missed the sound of her voice as she spoke or sang. Missed the smell of her.

He wasn't the only one.

Tears rolled down Jeff's face as little Alan snorted softly in his sleep, pulled one arm free from the blankets and held it straight up in the air with his eyes still closed.

Jeff wiped his eyes on the back of his arm and reached one finger out to the little hand. Tiny fingers grasped his so-much-larger one tightly and held on.

He leaned forward and kissed the backs of Alan's soft, pale fingers, then settled back on his knees and watched his little boy sleep. The little boy that was the final proof of the love that had been inside Jeff for what felt like his entire life. A love torn away even as this new life had been brought into the world.

Until tonight, Jeff had barely been able to hold Alan, and the excruciating loss wasn't Alan's fault anymore than it was any of the other boys' faults. Jeff knew this logically, but the agony of his loss overwhelmed him at times, and knowing how very much Lucy was looking forward to this latest addition to their brood, and yet never even once got to hold him, sliced through his soul each and every time he looked into the baby's eyes.

But it wasn't fair to Alan to deprive him of the same love, the same kisses, the same silly faces, the same antics as he'd doled out to his first four sons. It wasn't fair to Lucy's memory to ignore the small miracle she'd stayed alive just long enough to ensure had the chance to live.

To his mother's and eldest son's mutual surprise, Jeff had insisted that he and he alone would care for Alan this evening, giving them all the night off from the baby for a change. And so he had, from the moment he'd come home from work.

So focused was he on memorizing Alan's face, as he had that of each previous son as they slept, he didn't see the door to the bedroom crack open. He didn't see a nine-year old boy's face peek through, stare for a few seconds, and then slip away.

And out in the hall, he had no way of knowing that Scott, who had once been this tiny and helpless but now bore the weight of the world on his shoulders, shed a tear over what he had seen.

Jeff knew only that the boundless love he'd felt for his wife was shattered. But he still had this, this miniature version of his own hand clasping what it could of his, as if the infant were asking his father not to leave him, too.

Jeff vowed he never would. Lucy had loved them all too much for him to dishonor her that way. And Jeff? He smiled, slowly extracting his finger from Alan's hand and pulling one of the blankets up over his arm. Jeff would make sure each of his sons knew every moment of every day how much he loved them all.

He made his way back to their bed.

_His_ bed.

_Their_ bed.

And cried himself to sleep.


	9. Ways 17 and 18

**Way 17  
>Get moving. Have a fitness plan in place and get your kids to join in.<strong>

"No, no, not like that. Here, Alan, see how Virgil's doing it?"

Alan scowled.

"It's not as hard as it looks."

"Easy for you to say. I'm only ten!"

John rolled his eyes. "Dad wants us to get hopping on this, Al, come on. One hour in the gym and then we can go check out the race, okay?"

"Promise?"

"For the tenth time," Virgil growled as he bench-pressed way more than a fifteen-year old had any right to, "_yes_!"

"Fine. Put the weights on. I'm only ten, why do I have to do this?"

"Dad wants us all fit. Sitting in front of the NASCAR video game for five hours a day doesn't count as exercise."

"Finger exercises!"

"Al, if I can do it, _you_ can do it."

"But Gordo."

"No butts except yours on that seat or no race!"

Alan stuck his tongue out at Virgil when he wasn't looking.

"I saw that."

Strike that. When he _was_ looking.

And then the door to the weight room opened. "How are my boys doing in here?"

"Good…Dad…" Virgil ground out between lifts.

"Almost done with the back," Gordon supplied.

"Another round of pull-ups and I'll be ready for the warmdown," John advised.

Jeff looked pointedly at his youngest, who was currently pretending to do bicep curls. "You have to put a little weight on that for it to be of any use, son."

"I shouldn't have to do this. My friends are out at the park, why am I in a weight room, because I have older brothers who're all jocks?"

"Dad's the biggest jock of all," John told him.

Jeff moved closer to Alan and got down on one knee, so his eyes were even with the seated youngster. "Why don't you like doing this, Alan? For you and Gordon, the routine's light. I wouldn't ever give you more than you could handle."

"It's boring."

"Which is why," Jeff said, pulling something out of his shorts pocket, "I brought you this."

Alan's eyes lit up. "My MP3 player!"

"Yep. Now get this on, start playing that god-awful ruckus you call music, and get three sets of ten done with the proper weights. Then we'll do our jog around the track and we can head to your race. Okay?"

"Okay!" Alan smiled, sticking the earbuds in his ears. "Thanks, Dad."

Jeff eyed each of the other boys, all hard at work, smiled, and left.

* * *

><p>Virgil strained under the weight of the portion of concrete wall he was trying to lift.<p>

On his hands and knees, Gordon centered his body under the most unstable portion of the wall piece Virgil was lifting, providing just enough support with his back for Virgil to keep his grip.

John reached down into the hole, felt around for hands, found them, and pulled with all his might. Out came a pair of blue-clad arms, then a blond head and finally a uniformed body.

Alan was free.

John pulled him out and away.

Gordon crawled out from under the wall piece.

Virgil started to drop the concrete, lost his hold on it, and cried out as it scraped clean through his gloves.

Alan reached out and caught the edge of the wall, saving all the skin from being ripped off his brother's fingers.

The brothers shared a smile, then headed for the surface. Another rescue successfully completed.

* * *

><p>"You should've seen it, Dad. I couldn't believe Al caught the hunk of concrete like that without ripping his arms out of their sockets!"<p>

"Sounds like you all did a fine job, Virgil. Everyone get washed up; Kyrano and Grandma have one helluva meal nearly ready."

Alan lingered behind as the others headed to their rooms.

"What's on your mind, son?"

"When you got us all together for this," Alan said, looking everywhere but at his father, "I didn't really know if I'd be up to it, you know? All the danger, trying to save people. Didn't know if I'd live up to your expections, if I'd be able to handle a job like this."

"You do a fine job, Alan. You all do."

"I guess maybe after today, I think I do, too. When you first asked me if I wanted to do this, I said no because I didn't think I could. I'm glad you believed in me, Dad, gave me the responsibility of being part of this team."

"I'll never give you more than you can handle, Alan."

Alan smiled. His dad had been right when he was ten, and he was right now. "Yeah," he said, turning to head out of the room. "I know that now."

Jeff watched his youngest go. He'd never been more proud.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 18<br>Take more walks, and leave the car at home.**

"Why do we have to _walk_ the whole way, Dad?"

"Because we can't drive a car on the island!"

"But we have golf carts."

"Yes, that's true."

"Is this your way of getting me to exercise?"

"I guess. More of a warmup, really."

"A warmup? For what?"

"You know how much I like the water, don't you, Lucy?"

"Of course, Dad. You were in WASP, you handle Thunderbird 4. Who _doesn't_ know you like the water?"

"Well, I've got a surprise waiting in the beach house for you, with your Uncle Alan and Aunt Tin-Tin."

"A surprise? Really? What is it, what is it?"

"It wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, would it?"

"Oh, come _on_, Dad!"

"Nope. Not telling. You'll have to wait 'til we get there."

"Then I'm running the rest of the way!"

Gordon chuckled as his father caught up to him, and Lucy disappeared down the path before them. "That's one way to get her to run," Jeff said. "Good one."

"Well, I learned from the best, Dad."

Jeff grinned. "You're not still holding that grudge against me for the time I made you run laps around the pool before I'd let you jump in, are you?"

"Hold a grudge? Me? _Never_! Although you have to admit, it was a little extreme."

"You had just polished off half a box of Twinkies. I wasn't about to let you go swimming with _that_ bellyful. You needed to let it digest a little first."

"Wait, _that's_ why you did it?"

Jeff's eyes twinkled in merriment.

"Well, I'll be damned," Gordon breathed, and then laughed and clapped his father on the back.

There was a lot to be learned from his eighty-nine-year old father still, Gordon mused as they continued toward the boathouse. He hoped there was plenty of time left to learn it all.

After he took his daughter out on a JetSki for the first time, that was.


	10. Ways 19 and 20

_Author's Note: The original female character (OFC) in Way 19 first appeared in my story "Ann," which is currently posted at the Tracy Island Chronicles – triple W dot TracyIslandChronicles dot com, if you'd like to learn a bit about how she and her Tracy got together._

**Way 19  
>Fall in love with your wife. Again.<strong>

John walked into the hospital room. His wife was asleep in bed, and next to her, in a mobile crib, lay the most amazing thing he'd ever seen in his life: his little baby girl.

He moved quietly to the crib, expecting the infant to be asleep. Instead, her large blue eyes were wide open, and her blond hair stood on end like she'd been hit by a bolt of lightning. He chuckled quietly, leaned down and lifted her gently from the nest of blankets.

Her tiny fingers were perfect. Her tiny toes, equally so. She gazed up at him through long, blond eyelashes as she squirmed in his arms. Then he lifted her so that she was over his shoulder, and began rubbing gentle circles into her tiny back.

"Hello, Aurora," he whispered into her ear as he began walking to the door and back to the bed slowly. Quietly.

Several paces to and fro, and he stopped near the crib, brought his daughter back down to cradle her in his arms, and smiled at the way she puckered her lips. "You look so much like your mother," he said, then kissed her on the forehead.

He looked up to find his wife was wide awake, watching him enjoy their beautiful girl with shining eyes. They held each other's gazes, then John moved closer to her bedside, bent over and laid Aurora in her mother's arms.

"Ann," he breathed, his lips near her ear. "She's perfect." He kissed her on her temple, one hand on her arm, the other splayed over Aurora's little tummy. Then he leaned back and looked into Ann's eyes. "You _both_ are."

She smiled and laced their fingers together. John knew he'd never been more in love with her than he was at this very moment. And as his gaze shifted to Aurora, whom he'd met a mere twelve hours ago now, he knew he'd never be in love like _this_ again.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 20<br>Admit you're wrong when you are.**

There is a legend in the rock of Tracy Island there,

Where once the Thunderbirds took flight, and no one was aware.

The place that International Rescue called its secret base,

But now, of course, things all have changed, they're in a different place.

If you listen carefully, you'll hear the tale of Dad,

The father who went out one day to swim, and it went bad.

He sauntered to the leeward side, donned only in his trunks,

Towel laid upon the beach, made all of large rock chunks.

It was his day to swim, but he had never tried it here,

And when his youngest followed him, he thought, "That's really weird."

Because his sons, they never went out swimming with their father,

They worked hard enough, they said, to really want to bother.

But Alan didn't come real close, so Jeff decided he

Had simply gone for his own walk, and chose to let him be.

Now Alan had put up a fuss when Jeff announced his plans

To try this new cove off the isle; young Al had waved his hands.

"Really don't like the look of it," he'd said with deepest scowl,

"I never go in over there, here, don't forget your towel."

But then Jeff told him, "Look, my boy, there's nothing in the water,"

"You make it sound like your old man is going to his slaughter."

So Al had bit his lip and turned and gone along his way,

And Jeff had just decided Al was having a bad day.

But then when Jeff, he waded in, water to his chest,

He felt a strange thing tickle him just at the next wave crest.

He kicked his leg and thought, "I guess it must've been a fish,"

But something then clamped hold of him, big as a supper dish.

He beat it hard and yelled and cursed, and Alan came a-running,

At first Al thought, "He's pulling my leg; it's just my father funning."

But then he realized his dad was hitting something near,

So Alan dove right in, his stomach knotted up with fear.

And wouldn't you know, with teeth gripped tight around Jeff's swimming suit,

A smallish shark was pulling hard, and ripping it, to boot!

So Alan grabbed its tail while his dad pummeled on its nose,

And eventually they got it off; is that all, you suppose?

Ah, no, there's just a little more to tell you of this tale,

We're not telling a whopper, nor the story of a whale.

You see, the shark made off with something bright yellow and red,

Caught there right inside his jaw, and all around his head.

So Jeff then found himself without a shred of clothing worn,

He got out fast, as naked as the day that he was born.

"Not a word," he said to Al, "but turns out you were right."

"That shark was pretty small, but he put up a big damn fight."

"I'll keep it to myself," Al said, as Jeff was drying off,

He didn't make fun of his dad, or jeer, or laugh, or scoff.

But from that point on forward, Jeff did listen to his son,

And counted himself lucky there, when all was said and done.

So when you think your father's wrong, all you sons and daughters;

When you're just a bit afraid of jumping in those waters,

Just remember that you have a mouth and tongue to use.

(And if you're Alan Tracy, you were given baby blues!)

Open up and tell your dad that you just feel afraid,

Then watch and see what happens, and the difference that you made.

Although it's fun to tell the tale of Near-Tracy-Papa-Stew,

I just don't think you'd really want this happening to you.

* * *

><p><em><strong>Shameless Self-Promotion Alert:<strong> I want to let you know that my published original novel "TAKERS" is now available on Smashwords so you can download it/view it in many different formats if you don't have an Amazon Kindle. Just go to smashwords dot com and search for Takers and you should find it, by Chris Davis (that's me!). It at least gives everyone the opportunity to read it! And I really hope you enjoy it. (If you're someone who prefers hard copies of books, you can always download a PDF, RTF or similar format and print it, too.)_


	11. Ways 21 and 22

_Author's Note: The original female character (OFC) portrayed in Way 21 was first introduced in my story entitled "Sitting Duck," which is currently housed at the Tracy Island Chronicles. Visit triple W dot TracyIslandChronicles dot com if you'd like to see how she met her Tracy._

**Way 21  
>Forgive your dad for any grudges you hold against him.<strong>

It wasn't until it happened to him, that he fully understood.

It wasn't until she died on the operating table, just as his son was born, that any of it really made sense.

How hard it had been to watch it happen.

How difficult it had been to want to be anywhere near what reminded you of her.

How impossible it was to imagine life without her.

How much you didn't want to face another day with her gone, let alone with the responsibility of a crying infant.

It wasn't until the moment Scott peeked into the crib in his room back on Tracy Island that it suddenly hit him.

It wasn't until he looked up at the photo of him and Kaya taken in Kaya's woods, that he realized just how close he'd come to walking quite literally in his father's footsteps.

How close he'd come when the doctors hadn't been able to get her heart to start beating again right away.

How much she meant to him, which he'd always known, but never really _known_ until he'd heard the flatline.

How beautiful she was even in the aftermath of her near-death, simply because she was _breathing_.

How very much a man could cry, when he almost lost the thing that made his heart keep on beating every day.

It was with new eyes that he looked upon his father their first night back on Tracy Island.

It was with his heart in his throat that he hugged Jeff, unable to say a word, but conveying everything he felt through that touch.

How much he loved his father.

How much he loved his wife.

How much he loved his brand-new son.

How much he loved his family.

It was a hard lesson to learn, but Scott never needed to be taught something twice.

It was a weight from his shoulders, to know it hadn't been his dad's fault that he'd run away when his own wife had died.

Scott forgave him at last.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: The original female character (OFC) mentioned in Way 22 first appeared in my story "My Turn," which is currently housed at the Tracy Island Chronicles. Visit Triple W dot TracyIslandChronicles dot com and read that story if you'd like a little more information on her.<em>

**Way 22  
>Teach a new dad what you've learned so far.<strong>

"So there are a few things you may not know, since you're only a year older than Alan and didn't go through the child-rearing your older brothers did. I thought I'd just pass them along, and you can do with this what you will, son."

"Thanks, Dad, I appreciate it. I have to admit I'm more than a little nervous. She's being induced tonight!"

"I know, I know. That's why I thought I'd let you know the five most important lessons I learned about having a newborn baby."

"All right, Dad. Shoot."

"Lesson Number One: Don't think your Sunday best will ever be protected with a burping blanket. Simply don't pick up your child until you've taken everything but your tee shirt off."

"Oh, man. All of us?"

"_All_ of you. I lost more good suits that way. Lesson Number Two: it doesn't matter if they just did Number Two before you put them in the car for a five-hour trip to your aunt's house – they _will_ go again as soon as you've left the confines of the city, and there's nowhere to change the diaper but inside the car on the side of the road."

"Ugh, _Dad_!"

"Hey, the number of times that happened, I should've bought stock in that company that makes air fresheners for your rearview mirror. Lesson Number Three: The distance a baby's milk-filled throw-up will go is directly proportional to the distance it is to the nearest piece of furniture, or another one of your children, or the pastor of your church."

"Who got who?"

"At various times, Scott got the pastor, Virgil got Scott, John ruined the sofa, Alan nailed Virgil and you made short work of my patent leather shoes."

"And Alan?"

"All of the above."

"Gross. Okay, next?"

"Lesson Number Four: Just when you think your child is potty-trained, he will prove that he's not. Usually somewhere that involves being seated on leather, so that the mess travels to the bodies of the people sitting next to him."

"Dad, this is disgusting. Is every lesson you have for me related to bodily fluids?"

"Son, you have never en_countered_ bodily fluids on a mass scale until you've had a baby. But the final lesson has nothing whatsoever to do with that."

"Thank God. Okay, I'm ready."

"Lesson Number Five: Tell your child you love them every single day, as many times a day as you can, from the moment they're born."

"Really? You didn't do that when I was a kid, that I remember. You didn't start doing that until—oh."

"Until I almost lost you to that hydrofoil accident? You're right. I didn't. And I regret that I could've lost you without you knowing."

"We know, Dad, all of us. Even back then, I knew."

"I know, son. But take my word for it: it makes you feel better when you know you've said it before your sons leave your sight. Trust me on that."

"Okay, Dad. Thanks. I appreciate the advice."

"Now, get to that jet Scott's got waiting for you. I'm pretty sure Elaine's already on-board and as comfortable as she can be made."

"Yes, sir. Oh, and Dad?"

"Yes, Gordon?"

"I love you."

"I love you, too. Now, hurry up. It's time for you to go become a father."

"Yes, _sir_!"


	12. Ways 23 and 24

**Way 23  
>Take time for yourself, so you can bring that sense of fulfillment with you to the family.<strong>

He'd never been a solitary man.

In the Air Force, he'd spent all his time surrounded by fellow pilots. Time around his commanding officers and later, around those men who served under his command.

In his youth, he spent every free moment with Lucille, or her family, or working with his father, mother and the few animals they had on the farm. The most alone time he ever got was driving the tractor, the harvester, the combine. And even then, he had music as his companion, blaring in the cab of the monstrous machine he was handling.

In high school, he was surrounded by a gaggle of friends, not to mention the girls always trying to get into his pants.

As an astronaut, he was surrounded by NASA personnel, by his fellow astronauts, researchers, lab techs. Even on his missions into space, he was never alone.

When Lucy had died, he'd been instantly surrounded by a multitude of both close and distant relatives from both sides of the family. He may have only had his parents, but they had brothers and sisters with families of their own. And Lucy's family - nearly all of them came, children included.

Plus, of course, he had his own five sons.

The years after she left them so violently, so unexpectedly, were hard, and yet as much as Jeff ran away from his boys, from every memory of Lucille, he was never actually alone. He was always working, always meeting with potential backers, buyers, partners, military men and women. It took people to make a business happen, and Jeff surrounded himself with the best.

One by one his sons had gone off to pursue their own careers. Scott to Oxford, then on to the Air Force. Virgil to Colorado to study engineering. John to Harvard University and then on to Jeff's own astronaut training academy. Gordon to college and then WASP. Alan to college as well.

As Jeff began pulling International Rescue out of Dreamland and into reality, he'd had to surround himself with even more people, though it was all hidden beneath a veil of secrecy. Hours upon hours with Brains, once he'd been brought on-board, and with Lady Penelope, to help him secure agents and gain her trust.

And as each of his sons climbed aboard this new, different and exciting ship of his, he spent an untold number of hours with each to talk about what the whole point of International Rescue was, to work at designing each Thunderbird and rescue vehicle. To carve a secret base and a home out of a hunk of volcanic island in the South Pacific.

And then they were all living on the island, inviting Jeff's own mother, plus Kyrano and Tin-Tin and Brains, to live there with them. Sure, the island and the villa, not to mention all the storage areas and hangars and the lab, were large enough that if any of them truly wished, they could find themselves all alone on any given day. But they were a family-oriented bunch who liked people. Liked conversation. Like each other.

Even when Jeff went on vacation, he wasn't alone, with Penny and Parker there at the Australian sheep ranch. On a trip to see about an investment, he went with Tin-Tin and Brains. In the city he spent time with Wilbur Dandridge the Third, and attended all those other meetings that had to be scheduled within a one-week time frame to accommodate the fact that he no longer lived within driving distance from his world headquarters.

No, Jeff had never been a solitary man.

And yet on this day, for the first time in more years than he could even count, he found himself standing at the precipice of the dormant volcano that had given birth to Tracy Island over hundreds of thousands of years. He stared down into the plugged cone, then out over the vast blue expanse of the Pacific Ocean beyond. Above, the sky was clear and light blue without a cloud to be seen; the sun shone brilliantly, and a gentle breeze tossed his hair lightly from side to side.

Interestingly enough, it had been John who'd suggested he might want to make this climb, as apparently he sometimes did himself with an old-fashioned tripod telescope in hand just to see what space looked like through the eyes of those who'd only had such things to observe the stars and planets as little as a decade ago.

Jeff leaned down and looked into the telescope's eyepiece, twisting the knob on the eyepiece assembly until Jupiter at last came into focus. Even in the daylight, at this time of year it stood out in stark contrast to the blue sky. He stared at it, wondering what people from decades ago thought when they viewed the planets this way. Wondering what John thought of it, having grown up surrounded by technology much more sophisticated than this.

He leaned back and looked down upon his dream that had come true; at the sprawling villa, the pool. The tennis court and far at the opposite end of the island, the large boathouse. The various piers and small docks here and there. The runway used for both regular aircraft and Thunderbird Two. The Roundhouse, hiding the most amazing space rocket ever created. The Cliff House. The palm trees, the sand, the rocks.

His home.

His family's home.

International Rescue's secret base.

Jeff smiled. Sometimes, he supposed, being solitary wasn't that bad at all. It felt good to reflect on the things you'd done with your life. To feel good about the differences you had made and continued to make. To set aside the cell phones and the vidphones, the email inboxes and the holographic computer tablets. The television screens and the radio stations. The hustle and bustle of your family living all around you. Smells wafting from the kitchen and dozens of news reports, stock reports, status updates and specifications to read.

Sometimes it was good just to _be_.

**Way 24  
>Remember what you hated to hear from your parents as a kid and vow to be different.<strong>

"Because I said so."

Oh, there was nothing worse than that phrase. Thankfully, Jeff's mother hadn't used it all that much, but oh, boy, it had been his father's favorite response to Jeff's questions. But Jeff had found a way to work around that; he would simply ask his dad, get the canned reply, and promptly go ask his mom. Made things a lot easier on him growing up.

"Children should be seen and not heard."

_Bullshit_, is what Jeff always used to think. It was an old-fashioned saying that pretty much ensured adults wouldn't have to endure non-adult talk and really, if you had something like six kids at a table at any given time, it was understandable. But with only one, well, it seemed more that his dad was just cranky and didn't want to talk or listen to any talk, period, when he was shoveling down Ruth's latest culinary delight. Jeff solved this problem, however, by learning sign language, teaching it to his mother, and then carrying on silent conversations that could only be seen. With a hearty laugh and a commendation for his ingenuity, Grant Tracy had reneged on this particular rule rather quickly.

"Maybe."

In Jeff's experience, this word always just meant no. Because truly, if a parent was going to say yes, they'd just say yes and have done with it. Jeff had tried to go the route of pestering his folks by asking every hour on the hour if they'd decided on something other than the "maybe" answer, until his mother had threatened him within an inch of his life if he didn't stop asking. So he'd chosen a different tactic, and bought one of those 8-ball things that said Yes-No-Maybe when you asked it a question. He'd managed to take the thing apart, fiddle with the little triangle in the middle that had those words on its three sides, and then presented it as the tool which would answer all of his questions. Once Grant and Ruth realized Jeff had scratched the word 'maybe' off the thing altogether, they laughingly promised never to use that particular word to answer one of his questions again.

"Not now."

This, of course, was never qualified with any sort of indication as to when. It could mean "Not now, but in five minutes," it could mean, "Not now, but next week," it could mean "Not now and not ever," for all any kid knew. Jeff had puzzled over the best way to handle this response when he got it, and decided that taking the two words very literally indeed was his best bet. And so when he asked if he could drive the family car to a nearby store, and his mother told him, "Not now," he replied, "Okay. I'll leave in five minutes, then." Ruth had blinked twice, stared at him a moment, then shook her head and clucked her tongue. Seconds later, Jeff had the keys in-hand and left the house with his mother's admonishment of, "If you weren't so charming, I'd ground you," in his ears. He grinned. His parents hadn't grounded him since he was eight. And he knew they wouldn't start now.

"When pigs fly."

Grant and Ruth should've realized a statement such as this was nothing more than a challenge for their only child. It had taken weeks and weeks of planning, building and testing using something other than real live pigs, but Jeff had finally gotten it to where he actually _could_ make a pig fly, courtesy of a miniature VTOL contraption that fit snugly around the pig's waist. Once Ruth got over her belief that the pig was going to crash and wind up pork stew right there in the front lawn, he was praised for his resourcefulness, told never to make a pig fly again, and allowed to buy himself that old clunker that Eleanor Hawkins' dad had for sale.

Jeff Tracy had never been one to take things at face value, nor to just walk away when he wasn't getting the answer he wanted. He'd been born with it. And he'd been quite the entertainment for his parents because of it.


	13. Ways 25 and 26

**Way 25  
>Read out loud to your children.<strong>

"Classic Children's Rhymes à la Tracy"  
><em>by Gordon Tracy<em>

Virgil and Scott (formerly "Jack and Jill")

Virgil and Scott, oh they were not  
>Supposed to go up there<br>Each time they climbed up way too high,  
>It curled their grandmother's hair.<p>

So when they roamed away from home,  
>To find the old oak tree,<br>Their brothers told, they got a scold,  
>And were told to let the boys be.<p>

"That sucked, Gordon."

"Only because it was about you, Scott. Shhh, here's the next one."

Little John Tracy (formerly "Little Jack Horner")

Little John Tracy  
>Was a bit spacy,<br>He wanted to go to the Moon.  
>But when he got there,<br>He found it was bare,  
>With nary an ocean or dune.<p>

"That was so lame."

"No comments from the peanut gallery, John. Moving along."

Rock-a-bye Alan (formerly "Rock-a-bye Baby")

Rock-a-bye Alan,  
>In your fast car,<p>

If you crash, you mor-on,  
>You won't get far.<p>

"You are _not_ reading that to my daughter!"

"Oh, come on, Alan. Tin-Tin liked that one."

"Sure she did."

"Hey, what about one for you?"

"There isn't one for me, Virg. You think I'm dumb enough to write one for myself?"

"Then I'll do it."

"Go ahead, Virgil, give Gordo a taste of his own medicine."

"You got it, Scott. Okay, here we go."

The Wet and Soggy Gordon (formerly "The Itsy Bitsy Spider")  
><em>Contributed by Virgil Tracy<em>

The wet and soggy Gordon went down beneath the bay  
>Along came a shark and whisked him right away<br>Out came his bros to save his sorry ass,  
>And the wet and soggy Gordon just gave them lots of sass.<p>

"You did not go there."

"I did, Gordo. I absolutely did."

"That was more lame than Johnny's!"

"Well, at least you _admit_ the one you wrote for me was lame."

"Are you going to shut up and let me finish reading these to Melati?"

"As her father, I put my foot down and say no. She's only 2 months old; filling her head with that crap this early can't be good."

"Alan, she's going to grow up around us, it's not like she won't see what we're really about."

"A thought which frightens me on a daily basis, Scott."

"Hey, boys, you didn't include my nursery rhyme in your little book."

"Dad? You wrote one, too?"

"Sure did. How about it?"

"Go ahead, Father."

"Thanks, Scott. Okay, Melati, you listening to your old grandpa? Here we go."

A Tracy's Child (formerly "Monday's Child")

A Tracy's child is fair of face,  
>(Or darker, as may be the case,)<br>They grow with privilege and with wealth,  
>They grow to have the best of health,<br>They fight and banter up a storm,  
>They all save lives and have good form,<br>So if you hear them argue and fight,  
>Send them to bed, and wish them good night.<p>

"I can _so_ tell a father wrote that."

"Really, Gordon? What gave it away?"

"That's it, guys, Mel's hungry. I'm going to take her to Tin-Tin."

"Bummer, I didn't get to finish reading her my book!"

"Later, Gordo, later. And please, for the love of continued peace on this island, _never_ within earshot of my wife."

"_I heard that, Alan Tracy!"_

* * *

><p><strong>Way 26<br>Leave your work issues at your job. Don't dump on your kids because your day was bad.**

Work sucks sometimes.

They lose victims after they've rescued them.

They aren't in time to save some.

Sometimes one of them gets hurt, almost dies.

A 'bird or other equipment gets damaged.

The bitch of it is, they can't just leave it at the job, because they _are_ their job.

Each of them is a rescuer, and other than their island base, there's nowhere else _to_ leave it.

Sure, they could try to put it behind them at the rescue scene when they leave to come home.

Sure, they could try to leave it all within the confines of whichever Thunderbird they piloted to get there.

But being a rescuer isn't about the machines or the locations of the disasters in question. It's about the men who put their lives on the line time and time again without expecting anything in return.

And so when Scott gets angry with himself for not thinking of a solution sooner;

And when Virgil gets mad as hell over the fact that his newly-designed Caterpillar Tanker doesn't perform as expected;

And when John gets rip-roaring angry (which means deathly silence from Thunderbird 5) because the moron who made the rescue call didn't think it was necessary to tell him that little bit about the barrels of chemicals on-site;

And when Gordon loses his cool for the first time in years because he couldn't get to Alan in time to push him out of the way;

And when Alan gets really angry over the fact that the chemical in question was none other than an experimental instant tanning solution that leaves him looking like George Hamilton only very nearly black, well:

They're just grateful the chemical wasn't something far, far worse.

And they're able to tease Alan good-naturedly about how he looks on the ride home because of the fact that he's alive and, other than being an unnatural shade of brown, none the worse for wear.

And they're able to continue laughing about it and talking about what they might've done differently to prevent their brother from turning into Malibu Alan, when they're having dinner together that night.

So even though they always bring their work home with them, the difference from most peoples' families is that they all do the same thing. They're all in this together. And they all use each other to unwind.

Well, except for maybe Alan. For some reason, Tin-Tin _really_ likes his skin that shade, so he unwinds in a whole other way…


	14. Ways 27 and 28

**Way 27  
>Drop your change in a jar each day. When full, open a savings account for your child.<strong>

The Tracy family may have had more money than God, but as Jeff had done with his sons while they were growing up, the children were taught the value of money, taught that while they did indeed live a life of privilege for the most part, they were no better than anyone else and they had to earn things, not just have them handed to them on a silver platter.

Such was the point of the four glass pickle jars, each capable of holding an entire gallon of liquid, which sat lined up in a neat row on the low built-in bookshelf against one wall of the office – or, the room that was the nerve center of the island during every rescue.

Each day four small children would earn coins from their great-grandmother, their grandfather and Granny Penelope, from their parents or their uncles and aunts.

Each day, as soon as a child got their coins, they would run for the coin jars, find the one labeled with their name, and drop their coins through the slot that their fathers had cut into the plastic lid.

Over time, these jars grew more and more full of coins until one day, the only son of Scott Tracy was the first to discover no more coins would fit into his.

Full of pride, his father flew the boy to Kansas two days after he'd filled his jar, and took him into the very same bank where Jeff had once taken all of his sons to open their first savings account. With great flourish, the teller allowed young D.J. Tracy to help pour the coins into a machine that automatically sorted and counted them.

And flashed the total dollar amount at the top.

D.J. couldn't believe his eyes when he found that he had precisely $398.64 with which to open his account. He then went on to explain to the teller exactly what he was going to do to double and triple that amount, which made both the teller and Scott smile broadly.

"He's got your father in him," the teller said to Scott with a wink.

"I see that," Scott nodded.

After the account had been opened and six-year old D.J. felt appropriately proud of himself and the bank book he now carried, Scott took him back to the farm just so he could finally see the place his Great-Grandma Ruth and Grandpa talked about. There were no animals there anymore, only crops and a home being rented to one of the farmers who tended those crops.

International Rescue was called out, but Jeff handled the coordination of things, and Scott – while he couldn't relax totally – took his son out to dinner in town, just the two of them. He looked at him across the table as he smeared macaroni and cheese all over his cheeks and lips. As he also smeared it on the glass when he lifted it to drink his milk.

Scott remembered his younger brothers so well at this age, all of them. Remembered wiping their noses and washing their faces and hands; sometimes having to fight them tooth and nail to do it. D.J. was easygoing like Virgil, as long as what you wanted to do made sense to him. He was dark-haired, a little darker-skinned thanks to his mother Kaya's heritage, and had his father's cobalt blue eyes. He was introspective like John and upbeat like Gordon. He also, if he managed to get conned into it by Alan and Tin-Tin's daughter, could get up to no-good just as much as Alan had as a child. And, as the bank teller had noted, he also seemed to have the head for business that Jeff Tracy had always had.

Scott leaned back and couldn't help but chuckle when D.J. looked up and grinned open-mouthed, showing off his half-chewed food. "What are you thinking about, Daddy?"

"Our family," Scott replied, folding his napkin and laying it on the table. "You."

"Are we going to stay overnight here?"

"Do you want to?"

D.J. nodded. "But then I have to get home, because I need to start earning more money right away!"

"What for? You have some big purchase in mind?"

"I can't tell you, Daddy!"

Scott shook his head. Secrets were every child's right, and he wouldn't begrudge his own son the ones he wanted to hold onto.

* * *

><p>One by one, each of the remaining three littlest Tracys filled their jars. One by one, their fathers took them to Valley Falls, Kansas, to open their first savings account. One by one, they each worked with D.J. to maximize their income.<p>

It wasn't until Christmas morning came, and every Tracy with his wife or girlfriend, and Brains and Kyrano, and even Parker, stood around the Christmas tree, that Scott or anyone else understood why the kids had been so hell-bent on getting so much money together.

There were no presents from any of the children to anyone else _under _the tree, but leaning against the wall _next_ to the tree, was a gigantic piece of cardboard that had been covered in white paper. Every inch of that was covered with photographs and hand-written notes, some very sloppy and others in neat cursive writing.

It was a thank-you from each and every child at Coralville Children's Hospital, for the generous donation of one gift for every child made by the "Children of International Rescue."

The five brothers all looked at each other. None of them had had a clue. Or, at least, that's what they all led each other to believe.

For John, Alan, Scott and Gordon, that was all very, very true indeed.

But for the one brother who didn't yet have a child of his own – Virgil – it wasn't true at all.

Well, his four little nieces and nephews would never tell of the role he'd played in what they'd done. And Virgil certainly knew how to keep a secret.

And so it was a Merry Christmas for the kids at Coralville. And for the grandchildren of Jeff Tracy who, with their very first philanthropic gesture, had shown they were indeed the children of International Rescue.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 28<br>Once in a while, ask your kids what you can do better. Then do it better.**

Jeff had made the mistake once of asking his eldest the best way of getting Mommy her birthday gift without her knowing what it was. Scott had suggested leaving Virgil at home and taking him and the not-yet-talking little Johnny to the jewelry store to pick out a necklace.

The end result of this was that the first words young John ever spoke, were to tell his mother what she was getting. Well, really, how was Scott to have known?

When young Virgil had once asked why the tractor couldn't go any faster than it did, Jeff had made the mistake of asking him how he thought he could make it go faster.

This had yielded the unfortunate result of having to buy a whole new tractor engine after Virgil's concoction of things from the garage that Jeff never _had_ found out all the ingredients of, ruined it completely.

While gazing at the stars from the back yard, John had complained that there were too many lights surrounding their Florida home to see the stars and planets clearly through his telescope. Jeff had made the mistake of telling John he should find a way that the lights wouldn't interfere with what he wanted to observe.

Sadly, the next night every neighbor within a two-block radius complained when they found each street light and porch light had had their bulbs removed some time during daylight hours. Jeff never had figured out how John had gotten up the poles to get at the ones on the street lights, and was sure he didn't _want_ to know.

And, of course, when Gordon fretted about the intakes of the pool filters getting clogged too quickly because of the constant problem of leaves falling into the pool, Jeff had asked Gordon what he thought a good solution for it was.

Much to Jeff's chagrin, he'd come home from work one day (that Gordon had stayed home sick from school) to find all three back yard trees chopped down and removed courtesy of a tree service who insisted Jeff himself had made the emergency call for removal. Jeff wondered how the hell an eleven-year old boy had managed to imitate his voice that well.

While there were many times Jeff had consulted Alan about this, that or the other thing just to get his opinion, the one time he'd done so with less-than-optimal consequences involved an experimental single-use personal jetpack Jeff was working on developing in his garage work area. Alan had believed Jeff could make the single VTOL work very easily indeed if he just bent the exhaust pipe away from the back of the person wearing the jet pack.

Unfortunately for Jeff's garage, Scott's car which had been parked _in_ the garage, and the garage itself, Alan had tried to make the modification and test it out. It had been a little hard for Jeff to explain to the contractors why there the roof of the garage was missing. It had been equally difficult to explain to the auto insurance people how precisely a jet pack got stuck through the grille of Scott's car.

And so, while Jeff's experiences in consulting his children over the years had not always been good ones, as he watched the finalized designs for each Thunderbird craft scroll across his laptop screen, he knew that _this_ time he'd been right in doing so.


	15. Ways 29 and 30

_Author's Note: Way 29 might be considered crackfic (see notes prior to Way 1 for definition) by some. By those who _believe_, however…maybe not so much._

**Way 29  
>Hugs and kisses are golden. Be generous.<strong>

All his life, he'd never realized this gift he had.

He'd hugged his mother a lot, and she was still alive in her late eighties, while his father had died.

He'd hugged Lucy an awful lot, too, but it hadn't been enough, not nearly enough, to keep her with him. Now, he believed it was simply because he hadn't been there. If he had, if he hadn't been traveling when it happened, he thinks he could've saved her with nothing more than a hug, or quite possibly a kiss.

Because now he knows for sure he's got this gift.

He knows, because when he thinks back on it, he sees how it has saved each of his sons at least once.

When he'd arrived at the hospital to find a dying newborn son and a dead wife, he'd taken the infant handed to him and hugged him and kissed him, even as the doctors told him the baby wouldn't live another hour.

Yet here Alan was twenty-five years later, alive and well and kicking butt with International Rescue, as well as in his own private pursuits.

When Virgil had gotten his arm caught in the caterpillar tracks of an experimental vehicle he was working on shortly before International Rescue had begun operating, everyone believed that arm would have to be amputated, ending Virgil's artistic days, piano-playing days…and his rescuing days before they'd ever started.

Jeff had hugged him in the hospital, kissed his forehead as his son wept for the upcoming loss. And miraculously, the arm had repaired itself, as though by magic. Kyrano had given Jeff a knowing look, which Jeff had brushed off.

And then there had been his own mother. She'd been out and about on the island, miss-stepped on the rock near the beach, and gone headlong off a cliff into the water. Gordon had seen her go, and pulled her out. Brains hadn't believed she'd make it to the hospital in Sydney, but Jeff…on a whim…had hugged her and kissed her cheek.

Right before their eyes, she awoke, and was none the worse for wear. Kyrano had gazed steadily at Jeff, who had chosen to ignore it.

And then Scott, trying to fix the malfunctioning sliding pool so his 'bird could launch. A glitch in the power circuit had started the pool retracting before Scott could get out of the way, and he drowned as it cut off any chance for him to escape from the concrete above.

Virgil had reversed the pool's movement, and retrieved his dead brother's body. Jeff had instantly gotten to his knees, lifted his boy in his arms, and hugged him fiercely, kissing his cheek, his forehead, his temple.

Coughing and spluttering, Scott had awakened and was completely fine.

This time, Jeff held Kyrano's eyes for several seconds. He didn't understand why or how, but the knowing look from his friend confirmed that Jeff had a gift.

Proven back when Gordon hadn't been expected to live after his hydrofoil accident, and repeated hugs and kisses from Jeff had showed the doctors they were wrong.

Back when John had nearly died from a heart condition when he was seven years old, and Jeff's touch had made his heart whole and hale, functioning perfectly to this day.

He stood on the balcony of his bedroom, the wind blowing in his hair as he looked out over the teal-tinged waters surrounding his home. He heard Kyrano enter his suite, pad softly through his rooms, and come to rest next to Jeff, his soft, flowing tunic sleeve brushing Jeff's bare arm.

"Why?" Jeff asked.

"We may never know, Mr. Tracy," Kyrano replied, then turned to look at him. Jeff was compelled to turn as well. "But this gift of yours was given to you for a reason."

"To keep my boys alive, so they could save others."

"Perhaps."

"Who knew there could be such power in a hug and a kiss?" Jeff asked.

Kyrano grabbed his arm and sagged against him.

Jeff's arms came around his friend. "What?" he asked in a panic. "What is it?"

His friend began panting. Clawing at his heart. A wide-eyed look of fear on his face.

So Jeff gathered his friend close, squeezing him tight against his body. Placed his lips next to Kyrano's ear, and whispered, "Live," to him, before kissing him on the temple.

Kyrano's body stiffened, then suddenly he found his footing again. He stood, pulled away, sweat pouring from his hairline, down his neck. Slowly his breathing and color returned to normal while Jeff watched anxiously.

"That's why you came to me," Jeff said. "You knew something was wrong."

First Kyrano nodded. Then, he said, "Thank you."

"What if I'm not around when the next thing happens? Like I wasn't around for Lucy?"

Kyrano laid a hand on his arm and squeezed. "You will be there if you are meant to."

It wasn't easy to live with this knowledge that there might be times you couldn't use it. When you had already lost the woman you loved more than your own life because you weren't there when she needed the power of your touch.

It was Jeff's gift. But as with most special things, it was also his curse.

And it was proof of the power of hugs and kisses to heal. At least, those given by Jeff Tracy.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 30<br>Let your kids make their own choices.**

He had asked them, not told them. Not demanded it of them.

He would never ask more of them than he felt they could do. And he would never order them to give up the lives they were each building, or had already built, for themselves.

It had to be their own choices.

Scott, he had approached first. As the eldest, climbing the ranks in the Air Force, he arguably had the most to lose.

Scott had asked to be the one to approach Virgil. The two had always shared a bond unlike any Jeff had ever witnessed between two men, siblings or not, and so he'd agreed.

John had been Jeff's next visit, and he had left him with the same decision to make as he then left with Gordon and finally, Alan.

Brains was already on board.

Kyrano had been grateful for the island asylum, to keep him safe from his half-brother's clutches. And Tin-Tin was excited about the prospect of ending up on Tracy Island after her schooling and subsequent European tour were both finished.

Jeff's mother was delighted, being able to be that close to all her family for the rest of her days.

But there were still the boys, and Jeff was pretty sure they were consulting with each other as he landed back on the island, which was very nearly livable except for not having running water. He stood on the first-level wrap-around balcony and looked out over what would become the secret entrance and exit for Thunderbird One. What would become the harbor for machines and men who would save more lives than had ever been saved before.

But only if they said yes.

He didn't hear from any of them for weeks. By then, there was running water and he was staying on the island as the workmen continued, none of them having a clue what it was they were blasting rock away for.

Kyrano joined him, and then Brains, there to complete his lab.

Planes came and went at all hours of the day and night, bringing belongings, materials, different shifts and crews.

Then one day a jet landed on the runway. The runway that would someday launch Thunderbird Two. Jeff made his way down to it as the jet's engines whined to a halt, and waited. The door in the rear of the fuselage opened.

Out stepped Scott.

Followed by Virgil.

Then came John.

Followed by Gordon.

Jeff held his breath.

Within moments, a second blond head appeared, and Alan descended the plane's steps.

The boys lined up in a row in front of their father, and Scott said, "International Rescue reporting for duty, Father."

It was all he could do to hold back the tears of pride, of joy, of _gratitude_ that threatened to spill from his eyes.

Instead he gave them each a hug and invited them to look at their new home, to choose their rooms, to decide how they wanted them decorated, to have a look at Brains' preliminary designs for the Thunderbirds, to talk logistics.

There was much work to be done, to bring this dream to fruition.

And each of his sons had chosen to be a part of that dream.


	16. Ways 31 and 32

**Way 31  
>Get out in nature with the family.<strong>

Gordon grinned as his dad jogged up the trail after him.

"You know, son, this is the best idea you've ever had."

"Thought you might like this place."

"How'd you know about it?"

The men walked along side-by-side; the path was just wide enough for it on this stretch.

"We spent a good amount of time mapping the ocean floor about fifty klicks north of Molokai. The problem was we discovered a new fissure that had formed since the last geo-map was done, so we wound up having to abandon the site as a potential location for our bathyscaphe."

"So you came here to this island quite a lot in those days, then."

The dirt path narrowed, and Gordon took the lead as Jeff adjusted the large backpack he was wearing, identical to Gordon's.

"Yeah, a local girl told a couple of us about the Molokai Forest Reserve, so Jake and I hiked in when we had a week's leave. We barely made it back to the _Codfish_ in time return to the _W.S.S. Harmon_!"

Jeff chuckled. There was so much of Gordon in that story. And so much, he realized, that he really didn't know about Gordon's time in WASP. It was one reason he'd jumped at the chance when Gordon had offered it, of joining his son on this little excursion. They'd be hiking all the way to Pepeopae deep in the Reserve, where Jake Stevens was supposed to meet them.

Jeff had met Jake at the hospital after Gordon's hydrofoil accident, and had always liked the young man very much. He'd shown genuine concern for Gordon, and had actually been instrumental in helping Gordon keep his chin up throughout his recovery. The friends had never lost touch, even after Gordon's WASP days were through.

But these moments of solitude with his fourth son were moments Jeff was treasuring very much. After all, he could've lost Gordon forever back when that accident happened. He could've missed out on knowing this amazing man he was proud to call his son.

He could've missed out on so _much_, and suddenly, he realized he had. Well, no longer. These brief respites from International Rescue were something each of the boys deserved after putting in eighteen months of solid rescues with very little time in between.

Jeff hoped maybe he'd be able to share moments like this with each of them when the time for their leaves came. Because there was nothing more precious than one of your sons turning around, putting his hand on your shoulder, giving it a squeeze and saying, "I'm really glad you're here, Dad."

So Jeff answered with the only thing that came to mind. "I'm really glad _you're_ here, Gordon."

* * *

><p><strong>Way 32<br>Count to 10 before you react to your children's actions.**

…1…

When Gordon tore the sofa apart looking for his missing fishy bathtub toy. He was three.

…2…

When John broke Jeff's laptop trying to figure out what made the screen go dark when it closed. He was six.

…3…

When Scott crashed the family car the very first time he took it out alone, because he'd been distracted by Mary Ann Witkowski's…uh…cleavage. He was sixteen.

…4…

When Virgil had started a fire in the garage testing out whether the liquid in a white canister was turpentine. He was eleven.

…5…

When Alan had eaten all the wheels off Virgil's toy trucks. He was two.

…5…

When Gordon nearly got himself killed trying to rescue a small dog from a burning building. He was thirty-one.

…4…

When John was knocked unconscious and nearly fell to his death off a one hundred-story tower because he felt the lives of the trapped construction workers were more important than taking the time to secure his safety line first. He was thirty-four.

…3…

When Scott insisted on driving the Firefly into a situation Brains advised was too hot for even _that_ vehicle's shielding, and came back home with second and third degree burns. He was thirty-six.

…2…

When Virgil purposely released himself from his harness on the side of a cliff to allow Alan to use it for a kicking, screaming child they were trying to rescue, leaving himself trapped for over two hours and mildly hypothermic when all was said and done. He was thirty.

…1…

When Alan scaled an erupting volcano to rescue two men from certain death, in spite of the fact that the lava flow was far too close for it to be safe for any of them…and came back with only one small burn on his foot. He was thirty-three.

Over the years, Jeff had found he always started counting to ten when his boys did something that either angered him or scared him to death.

Somehow, though, he'd never made it all the way _to_ ten. Because they were his sons. And they were boys. And they were the most precious things in the world to him.

How could he be angry with children for being children?

And how could he be angry with the five bravest men the world would ever know, for doing what only they could do?


	17. Ways 33 and 34

**Way 33  
>Remember that kids mirror our actions, so watch what you say to or around them.<strong>

_1920_

"Helen?"

"Yes, James, what is it?"

"You, uh…you mind telling me why Margaret just told that doll of hers there wasn't any way in heck she was getting any supper after making water on her Pa's work boots?"

"Uh…"

_1935_

"Margaret? Where are you, Mags?"

"Here, Charles, in the kitchen!"

"Mags."

"What?"

"Why on Earth did I hear just hear Mary scold the dog for flooding the bathroom?"

"Uh…"

_1956_

"Mary, is supper ready?"

"Just about, Joe, just about. Now, what's that look on your face about?"

"Strangest thing. Ruthie's playing out on the tire swing with that little guy from the Johnson farm."

"Bobby."

"Right. Bobby."

"So? He's over here all the time. Keeps her out of my hair when she gets home from school."

"Well, it's not _that_, exactly."

"Then what, Joe, for heaven's sake!"

"I just…I could've sworn I heard Ruth tell him unless he wanted to have it himself, he wasn't ever touching her again. Now, where'd she get a thing like that?"

"Uh…"

_1975_

"Ruth Tracy!"

"What? _What_, Grant?"

"You know what that boy of ours just did?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

"He just got behind the wheel of the car."

"So?"

"With a key."

"Where'd he get the key?"

"I don't know, but you know what he did then?"

"Do I _want_ to know?"

"He started 'er right up, put 'er in gear, and started driving right down the driveway."

"Ohmigosh, is he okay?"

"Jeff? Oh, he's fine. Car's none the worse for wear either, but, you know, I asked him what made him think he could go driving the car when he's only five years old."

"And? What'd he say?"

"He said, 'If that big galoot can drive this baby, then so can I!' Now, Ruthie, you wouldn't by chance have any idea where he heard _that_, would you?"

"Uh…"

_1998_

"Jefferson Grant Tracy, I want a word with you."

"Lucy? What is it?"

"I want to know something."

"Okay."

"I want to know why our firstborn son, at the tender age of two, just told the cat to go eff itself."

"Uh…"

_2033_

"Scott, hon, got a minute?"

"Sure thing, Kaya, what's up?"

"Um…well…I don't know, maybe it's nothing…"

"Kaya? What? D.J. okay?"

"Oh, he's, uh…he's fine. I just…I'm a little…curious about something."

"What's that?"

"Well, he just told your father in no uncertain terms, that if he ever peed on your boots again enough that it flooded the bathroom, the big galoot was never going to be able to touch him again, and then used the 'f' word."

…

"Scott? What's so…where are you going? _Scott_?"

"_Dad!_ What the _heck_ stories have you been telling my _son_?"

* * *

><p><strong>Way 34<br>Parenting is a shared responsibility. Jump in and do something mom normally does.**

Lucy was exhausted.

And it was little wonder. She'd only come home from the hospital yesterday morning with the newest little addition to their family, and while John was a relatively unfussy baby thus far, his two-year old brother demanded Mommy's attention after she'd been gone for _two whole days_. Never mind that Scott was doing his level best at the tender age of five to keep Virgil busy.

Problem being, of course, that Scott had started Kindergarten, which left Virgil at home with Mommy and Baby John while Daddy went to work. Grandma came over as often as she could, but it was hard getting away from the farm she and her husband still worked.

_Ergo_, Lucy was exhausted.

When Jeff came through the door at 7:30 that evening, it was to find his wife passed out – quite literally – on the living room couch, with John in a nearby bassinet-on-wheels, and Virgil using his (thankfully) washable crayons on the dining room wall. Scott had gone to the farm after school to help his grandmother finish cooking dinner for his family, and would be coming with her to bring it by.

Jeff got Virgil away from his scribbly art project with a plate of cheese and crackers.

And then John made a _sound_.

Jeff jumped to, determined that nothing would wake Lucy until the irresistible scent of his mother's cooking wafted through the air. Now, it had been some time since Jeff had changed a diaper, being that Virgil had been potty-trained six months earlier, and he had been on a mission into space for a good portion of Virgil's infancy.

But it was no problem, not for a Tracy. He could do this. Third child, after all. Just like riding a bike. Or…falling off a log.

Right.

He lifted Johnny from the bassinet and whisked him up the stairs to his bedroom, adorned with crib and changing table and dresser, and Winne-the-Pooh everywhere the eye could see. Jeff had never quite gotten comfortable with that little stuffed bear. It sort of creeped him out a little, but he'd never tell Lucille that.

So Johnny found himself placed gently atop the changing table, and then Jeff opened the drawers beneath to get baby wipes and a tiny newborn-sized diaper out. He looked at the snap-up light blue onesie John was in, and made short work of unsnapping it and pulling two little legs out of it.

Just like riding a bike.

He peeled back the Velcro tab on one side of the diaper. Then he peeled back the Velcro tab on the other side. John shoved his tiny fist into his tiny mouth and started suckling, so Jeff knew the next order of business was feeding the boy. He was a helpful father. An involved father. But sadly, he was ill-equipped to help Lucy with that one at all.

But at least he'd get the diaper change out of the way!

So he pulled back the diaper, checked that everything looked okay, and cleaned his little boy up. On to the next step, grabbing the baby by the ankles gently and lifting his bum just enough to slide the clean diaper underneath it, then lowering him back down.

Jeff then made a mistake. A really, really, _really_ big mistake.

He tickled Baby John's tummy with his fingertips, his touch feather-light.

So John showed him what men and women for generations had been learning the hard way, and would probably always continue to learn the hard way for generations to come.

Little John Grant Tracy dutifully reminded his father why you don't leave baby boys without something covering them down south. Both Ruth and Lucille snorted and tried not to laugh when Jeff returned bare-chested to bring the infant to his mother for dinner.

And Jeff turned bright red. At least, he thought, it made Lucy laugh.

The sad part was, the next time he had the little baby boy on the changing table, he forgot again...


	18. Ways 35 and 36

_Author's Note: Some may consider Way 35 somewhat crackfic-ish. Personally, I don't, but fair warning is fair warning._

**Way 35  
>Learn from your elders – ask them what they've learned as fathers.<strong>

Our people have been the saviors of Man since the first of us walked the Earth, many thousands of years ago.

In the time of our earliest ancestors, there was no technology. There was only the belief in oneself, in one's abilities. In the world around you, Nature, the communion of a universal consciousness that flowed between planet and human, animal and tree, plant and sky. And even, some of my later ancestors believed, to and from space.

Many of them were mystics of a sort, something Kyrano enjoys talking with me about. Many of them used what appeared to be magic to heal others, but was really nothing more than a vast knowledge of how the various parts of the body, and various things found in Nature, all worked together to fix whatever was wrong.

As the years progressed, we became less dependent on the mystical and the Mother Earth ways, and much more dependent on the physical. Tracy men started using their muscle to save lives, rather than the knowledge gained through years of handed-down tradition.

On and on it went until at last the torch was passed to me the day my father died. And I was living as we Tracys had come to live – like a normal, regular man. As though I didn't have centuries of a different path, a different tradition, paving the way for me. For three generations we had drifted from the way it had always been.

And then my beautiful wife died, and that very night, as I mourned her loss, as I grieved with a pain so deep I couldn't find a way to release it, they appeared to me. Every male ancestor clear back to one who looked more animal than human, if my eyes were to be believed, stood in the room I had shared with my wife only the night before.

They spoke to me. For the entire night, I listened. And the seed for International Rescue was planted.

Now, we use a marriage of what the modern Tracys have gotten so good at – technology – with something we were once very good at long ago, something that now Kyrano is more instrumental in than I: the mystical.

When my sons rescue people, they aren't _always_ only using technology. And when people "miraculously" survive, it isn't _always_ because we got them to the hospital sooner than they would've gotten there had it not been for our fast machines.

We aren't gods, by any stretch of the imagination. Underneath the fantastical feats we are all still very much men, with all the emotion and testosterone and human nature inherent in _being_ men.

But now we use the power of Nature-made with the power of Man-made to keep people from dying. Maybe if I'd known about this sooner, I could have saved my wife. But if she'd lived, we wouldn't do what we now do.

I would give it all away to have her back again.

But I wouldn't want things any other way than they are right now.

It's the conflict that envelops each and every day of my family's life. One we've learned to live with. One we _choose_ to accept, so that _others_ may live.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 36<br>When a child does something not so nice, separate their actions from them in your mind. A child is never bad, even though their actions may be.**

"Kids are mean."

I stopped and thought about that for a moment. Those three words.

Kids are mean.

Scott had said them with a shrug, like it was just one of those things, a fact that was annoying, but that you couldn't do anything about.

My own boys weren't being raised to be mean. In fact, I'd never heard one of them say any of their brothers had been mean to them. Of course, there were times when one of them didn't like something another did, but it was always a matter of "He broke my toy," not "he's being mean."

I guess Scott wondered what I was thinking, taking so long to get to my next statement, because he raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

"That's not really an explanation," I finally said.

"Dad, they were like this when I was little and they haven't changed. That's just how kids are."

"Your brothers aren't that way," I countered.

"Well, no, but every kid in school's not a Tracy."

I nodded because while I did father more children than the average family might've usually had, Lucy and I certainly hadn't been prolific enough to fill a school. I considered that a blessing.

"There's got to be more to it."

Scott was pensive, brow furrowed. A few seconds passed and then he said, "It's mostly because you're famous, from what Gordon tells me."

"The kids are giving him grief because of me having been an astronaut? But we live in NASA-Land here, every other family's somehow related to the space program, both government and privately-run."

"I don't know what to tell you, Dad. When I came up through the ranks it was different, because we were living in Kansas, where your accomplishments were a big deal to the locals. Here, being part of the space program, especially when your dad's a millionaire, isn't so special."

"I'll have a talk with Gordon this evening," I said, looking at the time in the corner of the vidphone screen. "I'm glad you're back home for your summer vacation, son. I've missed having you around. I think the boys have, too."

Scott grinned at me, and yes, I realized I _had_ missed him. You're proud of your kids as they grow, leave the nest, go on to build their lives, their careers. But you also can't help but feel that parental pang that comes as one by one they all become their own men.

"All right, I'll pick the younger two up from school. John says he's off to the space museum again, and Virgil's got football practice, so Al and Gordo and I will hang out at the high school and watch 'til he's done, then go grab John."

"Thank you, son. See you tonight."

"Bye, Dad."

I flicked the switch that shut down the phone and leaned back in my office chair. I spun around a couple of times, contemplating those three words again.

Kids are mean.

I don't actually believe children have an inherent evil streak, although admittedly, I've seen enough kids in action in my day to wonder myself sometimes. But there are reasons behind what they do, and for the most part – especially in the younger ones – they really don't know that what they're doing is considered mean or anything of the sort.

Sometimes they're just imitating behavior they see at home. Which is why my parents, Lucy and I, her parents and anyone I trusted to watch my children over the years were always careful with ourselves around the boys. You can't scold a kid for punching someone out or yelling at the top of his lungs when he's mad, if he's seen you do that. They imitate their authority figures, plain and simple, and think the behavior's therefore acceptable.

Sometimes they just latch onto something that's different from their own experience. Gordon's not an actual redhead, but he's the closest thing his class has got to one, so all the dark-haired and light-haired kids find him an oddity, and some who aren't very well adjusted socially would see that as an opportunity to tease.

And Gordon, well, he's not a hothead, but he's got a good temper on him when provoked. I have to admit, if some Neanderthal child came up behind me and pulled _my_ hair, I'd be tempted to solve it the old-fashioned way myself.

Then there's always the fact that if you tell a teacher or playground aide what someone did to you, you're labeled a snitch – I guess maybe they call it tattletale these days, who knows – and that gets you into a whole other mess of trouble out there.

I wasn't sure what I was going to tell Gordon about how to handle this Billy who kept giving him a hard time. Probably the standard father-son talk about dealing with things like a civilized human being, and then taking him out to the garage to have a go at my old boxing bag. It always made _me_ feel better when I was spoiling for a fight. I may even still have my smaller gloves from my youth to tie onto his hands.

One thing I do know, is that I'm going to talk to his teacher, and the playground aides, and explain to them what's happening. And I swear, if a single one of them tells me, "Kids are mean," I won't be held responsible for whether or not I hold my temper.

Because I know my boys. Mischievous, maybe. Mean, or prone to provoking attacks upon themselves? Highly unlikely.

Kids are mean?

No.

Kids do as those who raise them do. They poke fun if they're taught to. They lash out if they're hurt or angry over something that's happening to them. They vie for attention if their families or peers are ignoring them.

Gordon's twelve, and he's already developing into a fine young man in his own right. But this is where I start to teach him about how to be the _bigger_ man. How to walk away with your pride intact. How to let idiots roll off your back like water off a duck.

How to be a Tracy.


	19. Ways 37 and 38

**Way 37  
>The next time you feel like giving up on something, do it anyway and use it as a teaching moment.<strong>

Jeff didn't think the little baby sparrow would survive.

Virgil proved him wrong. He would _not_ give up on the bird, and he nursed it back to health until one day, he and his father watched it take off into the sky to live free and healthy.

Jeff learned something with that experience.

He learned that sometimes your children could teach you more than you could ever teach them.

Twenty-four years later, the doctors didn't think Gordon would survive.

Jeff vowed that Gordon would prove them wrong. And saw the knowing look in Virgil's eyes when he said so.

Gordon _did_ survive, and then some.

Virgil learned something with that experience.

He learned that parents could still teach their children things, even after their children were grown. Even when they were lessons the children already supposedly knew.

And, he learned that Jeff Tracy had been paying a _lot_ more attention to his kids all along, than any of them had ever realized.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note 1: Way 38 is a bit silly and quite probably unbelievable. I know this. But it was fun.<em>

_Author's Note 2: Thank you to the lovely Annie from Tracy Island Writers Forum for helping me with the name of the Australian equivalent to Child Protective Services!_

**Way 38  
>Remember that everyone is somebody's child.<strong>

Well, Gordon is Gordon.

It's really the only way to explain how he and his wife Elaine go to the Royal Hospital for Women in Sydney to give birth to a little baby boy, and wind up coming home with _four_.

That's right. Four.

Baby boys, that is.

The story goes something like this:

Gordon is walking his newborn son up and down the hall to give Elaine a break. Born just six hours earlier, little Jackson Alexander Tracy, already being called Jack by every relative he has, sports a head with only a fine peach fuzz of hair that looks like it could be black, blond or red, depending on the light.

_Leave it to my kid_, Gordon thinks as the infant snorts into his neck, _to not be able to decide on a single hair color._

The Tracys are leaving the tiny family in peace for their first night together, and then all bets are off when Ruth Tracy arrives tomorrow afternoon to start properly spoiling her fourth great-grandchild. Along with Grandpa Jeff. And Grandma Penny. And then there's Uncle Scott, Aunt Kaya and D.J. Of course, Uncle Virgil, who's going to see if he can spring his girlfriend Maria from the engineering school at the University of Auckland long enough to meet the newest Tracy.

Good Lord.

Uncle John and Auntie Ann and itty-bitty little Aurora, only a few months older than her cousin. And of course, Uncle Kyrano (because what else to call him?) and then Uncle Alan and Aunt Tin-Tin and Little Mellie-Poo, as Gordon will _never_ stop calling her. And Brains, who refuses to be called an uncle of anything except maybe the tri-hydra-helium-liftboat he invented that's saving the World Navy a fortune.

Never mind the family scattered throughout the U.S. They'll have to make the rounds like Scott did with the first baby, like Alan did with the second, like John had to do with the third. It's a whirlwind time of International Rescue having to make do without a crewmember, but with Thunderbird Five no longer needing to be manned, it really doesn't leave them a man short like it would've in the old days.

_Christ, four of us are dads now_, Gordon thinks, cradling Jack in his arms and rubbing the tips of their noses together. And when Gordon looks up from all these thoughts crowding into his New-Papa head, he realizes he's found some sort of central nursery. He honestly hadn't thought they even _had_ these anymore, given how big women's hospitals like this were on doing the private-room-for-the-whole-family-to-bond thing.

He looks through the large window before him to see three tiny little babies, marked as boys with the blue tags on the ends of their plastic mobile cribs. He notes they have only last names, each of them, and when a nurse comes to stand next to him and gaze at the infants, Gordon just _has_ to ask.

"Why are these three in here and not in their rooms with their mothers?"

The nurse, a man by the name of George, according to his name tag, clucks his tongue sadly. "There was a nasty wreck in the Tunnel, mate," he says. "Believe it or not, three of the women involved in the eight-car cruncher were pregnant."

"Are their mothers okay?" Gordon asks, brow creased.

"No, all three died, along with the husbands. They were all on their way here, if you can believe that."

George turns to go, but Gordon grabs his arm. "What's going to happen to them?" he asks.

"Best we can tell, they haven't any family to take them who're suitable for raising kids, so they might go to an orphanage. Chances are that as new babes, they'll be adopted quick enough. Have to get back to it, mate, congrats on your little boy there."

"Thanks," Gordon says, but he's looking back at the three newborn boys who will never know their parents thanks to a car accident.

It's something that hits a little bit close to home for the man who was only a year old when his own mother lost her life the same way.

And so overnight, as Elaine has to keep waking to feed their little Jack, and as Gordon slides himself into the bed next to her and their son – bless this hospital for making it a _real_ family-oriented environment – Gordon tells her about the three baby boys.

He reminds her of something she knows all-too-well…how his own mother died, leaving him and Al with no memories of her, and John with barely a handful.

He explains that he thinks little Jack was born when and where he was, simply because those other three little boys needed rescuing.

And who better to do so than International Rescue?

After the horror of what to do with four little newborns passes, they decide this is something they need to talk to their family about. And they agree that those three little boys aren't going to be orphans for long.

_One Week Later…_

Gordon, Elaine and Jack had stayed in Sydney for the duration of the preliminary work with the Australian authorities regarding the fates of those three little babies.

With Jeff Tracy as a father, and Lady Penelope Creighton-Ward-Tracy as a stepmother, and four brothers who were all named men in their own rights, not to mention Gordon and his own quasi-celebrity status in both the Olympic and sea-faring worlds, it is decided that the Tracys can take the babies home with Jack, and that the Department of Community Services workers assigned to the infants will come out in one week to assess the situation.

None of them have any doubts about the babies having a good home with a bunch of billionaires, cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents and siblings, however.

Of course, none of them know about International Rescue, but raising the Tracy kids is already a group effort, for the most part, and as John's wife Ann squeals with _far_ too much delight for _his_ liking, "What's a few more?"

So…when Gordon and Elaine come home to Tracy Island, they come home not with _one_ baby, but with _four_.

And suddenly the Tracy family has exploded.

Kyrano asks Jeff if he intends to repopulate the Earth with Tracys. Jeff laughs heartily and says, "No, raising the next generation of International Rescue!"

Tin-Tin suggests a nanny. Or five.

Grandma scoffs at the nanny idea, but reconsiders when she's commandeered for a three a.m. feeding four nights in a row.

It is chaos.

The rescues make it even _more_ chaotic.

The thing of it is, not a one of them could be happier. They're tired. It's nuts. But they're _happy_ because for a long time, none of them thought they'd _ever_ have kids in the family again.

Although Jeff is beginning to wonder if he should start thinking about expanding the villa just a _wee_ bit…


	20. Ways 39 and 40

**Way 39  
>Listen to yourself. Do you sound like your dad? Is that a good thing?<strong>

"I do not!"

Virgil narrowed his eyes and then raised an eyebrow at his older brother.

Scott scowled.

Virgil said nothing.

"I do _not_ sound like Dad."

"You're practically a carbon copy, Scott. Get over it."

"That's just—it's not—knock it off."

Virgil smirked. "I didn't say it was a _bad_ thing."

"It _is_ a bad thing!"

"Why?"

"I've already got the nickname Old Man Number Two from John on down."

"Oh, stop pouting, Scott. You _were _like a second father to them. Telling them what to do, making them do their homework."

"I made _you_ do your homework too. You never called me that."

"That's because I was always within reach of your fists."

Scott's scowl eased up a bit, the corner of his mouth turning upwards the tiniest fraction.

"It's funny sometimes. You stand like him, you think like him, and when we're in the field, it's like watching the Colonel reincarnated."

"We were both Air Force, that's the only reason."

"Uh-huh."

"Why are you pressing the issue?"

"Face it, Scott. You're a carbon copy of our father. I want you to admit it."

"Virgil, if you don't stop hounding me on this, I'll see to it you're on shakedown duty for the next _month_. What? Why is that funny?"

"You are _so_ our father."

Virgil took off at a dead run through the hangar, laughing all the way.

Scott hesitated a moment, decided there was one way he could refute Virgil's claim, and promptly grabbed the nearby fire hose, unreeled it and turned it on.

Later, with themselves and Thunderbird Two's hangar dripping wet, and both panting heavily from laughing way too hard, Virgil conceded the point. Of course, it may have also had something to do with the fact that Scott had him in a head-lock. And really, Virgil didn't see any reason to point out that's _exactly_ what their dad used to do when he wrestled with them as kids…

* * *

><p><strong>Way 40<br>Give yourself a break. I haven't met a father yet who doesn't make mistakes.**

Mistake #1

The time he let Scott make Baby Virgil's bottle, and had to deal with the aftermath: chocolate milk for a one-year old leads to a lifelong weakness for sweets in general.

Mistake #2

The time he told Alan to stay out of his grandmother's way, then couldn't find him for six hours and had to call out the fire department. It had been embarrassing when one of the firemen smirked and pointed upwards, where Jeff found his eight-year old son had fastened a self-made hammock to Jeff's bedroom ceiling and was fast asleep in it.

Mistake #3

The time Jeff had told Gordon he couldn't swim within an hour of having eaten, prompting Gordon to decide he'd never eat again to ensure he could swim whenever he wanted. Jeff found out the hard way just how stubborn a five-year old can be.

Mistake #4

The time Virgil had insisted that Jeff's new Mercedes needed a little sprucing up, and Jeff had flapped his hand at him and told him to 'have at it.' Of course, he thought maybe Virgil would vacuum it, but the thirteen-year old had other plans. Afterwards, Jeff didn't have the heart to remove the moon and rocket Virgil had painted onto the trunk, and his associates never let him live it down.

Mistake #5

The time he'd promised John he could go to work at the Tracy Aerospace with him, neglected to add, "but not today," and received a frantic call from his mother at eleven a.m. that John was missing. It turned out ten-year old John had stowed away on the floor in the back seat of Jeff's car, and had managed to make his way through the security doors of the building. He was found in the shuttle flight simulator. The shit of it was, John launched and landed the shuttle without so much as a dent to its simulated hull.

The Mistake He Never Made

Forgetting to tell each and every one of his sons that he loved them every single day.


	21. Ways 41 and 42

**Way 41  
>Unplug the TV and pretend it's broken once in a while. Or hide it.<strong>

There were several television sets in the house when they were growing up.

First, in Kansas, and then later, well after the boys' mother was gone, in Florida.

But TV had never been a problem for the Tracy boys. Jeff had never had to get after them for sitting in front of it too much, or fighting over which programs to watch.

For a time, John had had a television in his room when he was ill for the period of about a year when he was seven and eight years old. Even then, though, he rarely had it on, preferring the company of books instead.

Alan had begged to have one put in his and Gordon's room when they were nine and ten, just because, but Jeff had firmly stood his ground and refused. Alan eventually forgot about it because really, when your older brothers were all outside throwing a football around, shooting hoops or kicking a soccer ball between two trees declared the net, why would you want to stay indoors?

There was the swimming. There were the various sports which included baseball on top of the others, and even throwing darts.

Eventually, when Scott and Virgil were already gone from the nest, when John was a senior in high school, Jeff began to notice something.

While Gordon was training hard for the Olympics around this time, and early morning and late evening both found him going at it in the high school's Olympic-sized pool, he no longer joined Alan outside for random hijinks involving boxcar racing or the dune buggy Alan had cajoled Jeff into buying.

No.

Gordon's down time was now spent with the television. More specifically, with the types of old movies that Jeff would never have watched even if they were brand-new.

Horror movies, but not just _any_ horror movies. Gordon was into the most god-awful B, C, D and Z horror movies Jeff thought had ever existed. Terrible ones from the 1960s, 1970s and a smattering of later 80s, 90s and 2000s ones thrown in. Things like _Blood and Lace_, and _Satan's School for Girls_. _Games_ with a guy Jeff had always thought of as a tough man's man until he caught a glimpse of what he was doing in that particular flick.

The cheesier the movie, the better. The cheesier the _music_, the better. Oh, they were _bad_.

Finally one Friday night around 9:30, Jeff walked by the living room only to find Gordon watching something called _Bride of the Gorilla_ from 1951 and where did he even _find_ these things? He stopped, watched wide-eyed for a moment, and then said, "Why are you sitting here watching this when your brothers are out with their friends?"

Gordon paused the movie, looked up at his dad from the couch, and said, "I see my friends at school. I spend most of my free time training, and no, Dad, there aren't any girls I'm currently interested in dating. So I watch my movies."

He made to un-pause the movie but stopped when Jeff then asked, "How can you _stand_ this stuff? It's _awful_!"

Gordon sat up from his half-reclined position and put the remote control down on the coffee table. "Haven't you ever just watched something so you could make fun of it?"

"Um…" Jeff thought for a moment. "No."

"Well, I get a kick out of it. It's pretty funny wondering how some of this crap got made in the first place. The music's a hoot, and every now and then you find a diamond in the rough."

"You watch them just to make fun of them?"

"Well, no," Gordon admitted. "I kind of got addicted to them after I started. There's something about them. They're so horrifically awful you can't stop watching. Like when people rubberneck on the highway."

"Ah," Jeff nodded sagely, though he didn't get it at all.

"Come on, Dad, try this one out. I'm only ten minutes into it. I can skip it back to the beginning."

How to make good his escape without hurting his son's feelings? No clear way Jeff could come up with quickly, and so he sighed in resignation and sat down on the couch with his sixteen-year old boy.

"Just this one," Jeff said.

Six hours later, the other boys were all home, it was nearing dawn, and Gordon and Jeff were on _Cannibal Holocaust_, which Jeff was staring at in abject horror while Gordon grinned through the entire thing.

John had come through four hours earlier and just shook his head at the pair of them.

Alan had raced through the living room, skidded to a halt, done a double-take at the fact that his father was actually sitting there and watching such horrid fare, then shrugged and gone on to his room.

Neither Gordon nor Jeff got any sleep that night.

And right up until Gordon graduated high school and left to his own pursuits, neither of them ever missed a Friday Night Horrible Horror Movie Marathon.

Jeff wasn't altogether sure he was in his right mind watching this stuff with his son. But he'd never enjoyed hours of terrible fiction more in his entire life than he did in those two years' worth of Friday nights with Gordon.

When they were all back together on Tracy Island, the tradition started up again. Only this time, they left it at a double-feature, rather than five or six movies in a row. And Jeff was okay with that, because he was getting too old for this up-all-night crap anyway.

But neither man was too old to spend a few hours together laughing, joking, and just _being_.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 42<br>Go with your child to school once in a while. Meet the teacher and ask how you can help.**

Okay, so D.J. wasn't his kid, but Uncle Virgil was more than happy to accompany his nephew to school since Scott was in New York with their father handling a new acquisition for Tracy Corp.

The first of the next generation of Tracys to be of school age, the majority of classes D.J. attended were remotely via two-way video, with his mother Kaya by his side to help with all the things they had little kids doing, like arts and crafts projects, and making sure he was printing his letters and numbers properly.

But the agreement with the private school in Sydney was that D.J. would attend one class a week in person, and usually it was his mother or father…or sometimes both…who went with him. They would spend the day out and about in the city, and then pick D.J. up at the end of his school day, take him out for dinner and some fun, and return to Tracy Island.

Today, however, Kaya had some experiments with Gordon and Kyrano's underwater plants she wanted to be there for, and Scott was away, so Uncle Virgil had volunteered.

And regretted it almost immediately.

"What's an edge-nee-neer?"

"What's a cratty-pillah twack?"

"Do you have a whole island all your own?"

"You don't look like D.J.'s daddy at _all_."

Virgil was used to his nieces and nephews. He was good with them. They'd grown up around him, and they were used to life on Tracy Island with so many different people. They already knew, were trained from the moment they could speak a single word, to never say anything about International Rescue. And while it could never be guaranteed that one of them _wouldn't_ say anything, the Tracys were banking on the fact that people would just consider it a child's wild imagination if any of them actually _did_ say something about it.

But these kids, this _gaggle_ of twenty boys and girls ages five and six? This was just…it was too much, even for a guy with the patience of a saint.

"Uncle Virg?"

"Yeah, D.J."

"You don't look so good."

"I'm good, Deej. I'm good. What are we up to now?"

"Well, since it's Bring Your Dad To School Week, all the dads who come have to read a part of the book Mrs. Long is reading to us."

"Reading, huh? Okay. Reading I can do. You sure it's okay for me to participate since I'm not your dad?"

"Sure! My friends all like you."

Virgil grimaced. "Fantastic."

Nonetheless, he took the chair in the center of the semicircle of children and the smattering of dads who were there. Mrs. Long smiled at him as she handed him a book called _Front and Center_ about kids needing to line up when they're told, and basically follow what adults tell them to do for their own safety.

Opening the book, Virg saw the teacher swivel her hands around, and realized he needed to show the book to the kids while he was reading it. An interesting feat since it meant he could barely see the pages and they were upside-down to him.

He could do this. This was much simpler than developing a new steam-driven jet propulsion system for a new cousin to their Firefly machine. Sure it was.

Or not.

He got about halfway through the book and realized that for the first time that day, it was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. He looked up to find the children all staring – not at the book's pages – but at him directly, like they were mesmerized.

The weird thing was, Mrs. Long was looking at him the same way. Even the five other dads were watching him intently.

He was perplexed for a moment until he remembered something his girlfriend Maria had once told him early on in their dating life. "You have a voice like velvet, Virgil Tracy," she'd said.

Maybe that was it? He'd never really considered anything about his voice or anyone else's, for that matter, but…why the heck was everyone in the room just _staring_ at him like that?

Ten minutes later, he finished the book and closed it. He placed it on his lap and looked around. They were all still _staring_ at him.

Finally one little redheaded girl…Alexia, was that her name?...whispered, "Wow," like she was completely in awe.

"Wow?" Virgil repeated.

"You're the bestest storyteller ever," another little girl said with wide eyes.

"I…I am?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Long chimed in. "Another, children? That is, if Mr. Tracy doesn't mind."

"Another…" Virgil repeated with dread, until he looked at his nephew. D.J. was beaming, so proud that this was _his_ uncle everyone liked so much.

And that afternoon, as Virgil read the class book after book after book, keeping them actually sitting still and quiet for more time than he'd ever thought was possible for kids this age, he realized something.

There was a lot of power in the written word.

And there was a lot of power in sharing those words, those stories, with young, impressionable minds.

Which was how it came about that, once a month for the remainder of D.J.'s Kindergarten year, Virgil traveled with his young nephew to the school, and sat there reading books to the children of his class. Sometimes Scott joined him, sometimes not. But it was Virgil the children wanted to read to them.

Whatever the reason, Virgil found himself looking forward to it more than he ever thought he would. Molding young minds, getting them excited about different things, teaching them. Now he understood a little better why people became teachers.

He never would, however, particularly care for the cutting-and-pasting types of arts and crafts. Especially since he never did quite get that glue out of his favorite shirt. To his dying day, he'd swear that kid William had smeared it all over him on purpose…


	22. Ways 43 and 44

**Way 43  
>Make your health and fitness a priority so you'll be around for your kids for a long time.<strong>

It hadn't started out as anything other than needing to be in shape for the Air Force. And then to be in the tip-top condition NASA demanded of its astronauts before they'd let them go into space. After that, when building his conglomerate of businesses and raising five children took priority, it had become a way to get some time to himself, to let off steam, to think.

He'd never envisioned that his lifelong love of working out would actually save his own life. At least, not in this way.

Sure, he knew it was healthier all the way around to stay in shape, eat right, the whole nine. Who didn't know that? He'd always been a jock from the time he was allowed to play peewee baseball all the way through his high school football days. And working on the farm from well before dawn and deep into the night, well, you tended to grow muscles when you were pitching hay, planting and harvesting crops, patching fences and learning to be a jack-of-all-trades to the point where other farmers brought your seventeen-year old self _their_ equipment to repair.

But this virus, this…_disease_…that had taken hold of so much of the Earth's population. Well, Jeff could no more stay holed up on his island and just let the rest of the world die, than he could shoot himself in the head. So he went to New York City, to his world headquarters in Manhattan, to do what he could for the people who worked for him there. For his assistant, his 'work wife,' people joked. For all his vice-presidents. For everyone from the top right on down to the intern in the mail room.

There was no cure for this virus. 'The New Plague,' the media had dubbed it. By the time he reached Manhattan, more than half of that island's population was already dead. Of those that remained, at least a third of them were dying. And Jeff's companies weren't untouched.

Brains slaved away on a cure at his lab on Tracy Island, with Tin-Tin, Kyrano and Gordon doing everything they could to help. Scott, Virgil, Alan and John were constantly out as International Rescue trying to save lives.

Jeff was seeing both the best and the worst of humanity here and now in his own tower. Some of those that were still well – those whose bodies seemed fit and healthy, he observed – were trying to comfort those who weren't. Others were taking advantage of the dead and dying by raiding their belongings. This thing had spread like wildfire early on a Monday morning. It was only eight o'clock Monday evening, and yet just like that, so many on Earth were already gone.

It was an apocalypse Jeff never thought he'd live to see.

But he, it seemed, would survive. As would his sons. As would anyone on the planet who had kept their bodies hardy, fit, hale. For years, doctors had touted fitness as the thing that would save your life. Jeff was pretty sure none of them had conceived of how.

Bioterrorism on a grand scale. People with an axe to grind against the United States of America not handling their toxic weapon properly and accidentally unleashing it into the atmosphere. Death and destruction raining down from North Pole to South…clear around the equator, and everywhere in between.

More than ever, the Tracys had their work cut out for them now.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 44<br>Teach the value of service to others by volunteering in your neighborhood, church, or school.**

No matter how much wealth their father accumulated, the Tracy boys were never allowed to forget that there were others less fortunate than they. That, as their grandmother said, "There, but for the grace of God, go I."

Every Thanksgiving the family didn't sit around a table with two turkeys, casseroles, mashed potatoes and homemade gravy, or pie for dessert. Instead, they went to five different homeless shelters and soup kitchens in and around Kansas City or, later, southern Florida, to feed those who would otherwise go hungry. Those who _had_ no family, or at least, no families who _wanted_ them.

Every Christmas morning didn't find Tracys sitting around a tree with mounds of presents beneath it, eagerly tearing into brightly-colored wrapping paper and oohing and aahing over the best present they'd ever received. Certainly, the family celebrated both holidays, but they did so on different days than those they knew, because they were dedicated to serving and helping others.

From the time Alan could stand and hold a spoon, he was handing out silverware, then helping dish out food.

From the time Gordon could speak, he was putting on a small show for the dirty, filthy, poor, sometimes mentally unstable or physically ill people, singing them a song, maybe, until he got too old to want to do that in public.

From the earliest John could remember, he was willingly playing with children that otherwise would never enter his sphere of existence, bringing them small toys they held to their chests like they'd been given the Keys to the Kingdom.

From the moment Virgil could drive, he took a car separately from the one Scott drove, from the one Jeff drove, from the one Grandma drove, so the family could cover _more_ areas of the city with their helping hands, could reach out to _more_ people.

And from the moment Scott became the field commander for International Rescue, he declared that they would be doing it again, be reinstating the traditions of their youth. The Tracy family would go where they could, Jeff and his mother to one place, each son to another. International Rescue would be able to jump at a moment's notice if needed, but the family would restart what had become such a routine part of their lives in the early days.

Nobody knew, as they stood in line for the delicious meal Scott was spooning onto plastic plates, that this man might one day be responsible for making the decision that saved their lives.

Nobody knew, as Virgil handed out gifts to the children of an orphanage before they sat down for a meal he helped prepare, that when Thunderbird Two showed up and saved the day, he would be her pilot.

Nobody knew, as John carefully helped put together a new swingset the Tracys had purchased for a poor inner city park, that this man normally orbited high above the Earth receiving their cries for help and sending International Rescue their way.

Nobody knew, as Gordon scooped beef stew into bowls in the middle of the hurricane-destroyed southern U.S., that if their ship ever sank or they were lost at sea and needed help, this man would be the one bringing Thunderbird Four to save the day.

Nobody knew, as Alan carved slices of roast beef which he handed on a plate to Tin-Tin for her to scoop mashed potatoes onto, that this man could either be rocketing into space to save lives or hanging from the bottom of a 'bird to pluck them from Death's clutches.

And nobody knew, as very famous and recognizable Jeff Tracy, his mother to one side and his best friend to the other, slowly and methodically paid the mortgages for people whose homes had been so damaged in the 7.5 earthquake that had hit Southern California two months earlier that they were no longer livable, that this man wasn't just a former astronaut. Wasn't just a former Air Force colonel. Wasn't just a billionaire.

He was the Father of International Rescue. It was thanks to him, that so many people were alive.

But none of these people would never know.

And the Tracys, they were okay with that. They weren't in it for accolades, after all.

They were in it – in _everything_ – to help.

International Rescue's white hand stood for a lot more than anyone would ever realize.


	23. Ways 45 and 46

_Author's Note: The fourth wall has been completely removed from Way 45. Look out…_

**Way 45  
>Read a book about fatherhood.<strong>

"This is ridiculous."

"What is it, Jeff?"

"This woman's got it all _wrong_, Mother."

"What woman? What are you talking about?"

"_This_ woman."

"What's that, one of your ebooks? Let's see…_100 Ways to Be a Better Father_ by someone named Chris Davis. What's a matter with it? Come to think of it, why are you even reading something like that? You don't need help being a better father."

"Thank you, Mother, I appreciate that. No, a friend of mine recommended it to me, gifted it to my e-reader, so I thought, what the hell."

"Does your friend think you need to be a better father?"

"I don't know. He said it helped him an awful lot but here, just look at this one: "Be present with your children." What the heck does that even _mean_?"

"Well, does the author _explain_ it?"

"Sure, she does. Or he. Who the hell knows with an androgynous name like Chris, anyway? Here, here's another one: "Get moving. Have a fitness plan in place and get your kids to join in." Are you kidding? If I started a 'fitness plan' with each of my sons, I'd be exercising all day long and get nothing done!"

"Well, dear, I would suggest if the book's upsetting you that much, maybe you should just not read it."

"Good idea. But no, I have a _better_ idea. I'm going to write my _own_ book about how to be a better father, and send it to this Chris Davis person. Let's see how he or she likes _my_ take on things."

"You do that, Jeff. You do that."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 46 directly follows Way 45.<em>

**Way 46  
>Write a book about fatherhood.<strong>

_Dear Chris Davis,_

_ Your book "100 Ways to Be a Better Father" was recommended to me by a friend, and at the risk of coming off badly in my first communication with you, I have to say I think you completely missed the mark._

_ I happen to be a single father to five boys from ages three to twelve, and telling me that things such as "Let your kids make their own choices," and to hide the television are simply not practical solutions to everyday parenting._

_ As such, I've written my own book about how to be a better father and if you are a father (or a mother), I think you'll find it the most useful advice you have ever read. Here it is:_

_How to Be a Better Father  
>by Jeff Tracy<em>

_Chapter One_

_Make certain they know you love them no matter what they do, what they say or how they act. There is nothing more important than home being their safe haven. Nothing more important than your children knowing they can trust you._

_The End_

_I'll close, Chris Davis, by saying this: That's it. That's the entire book. _That's_ all you need to know to be a better father._

_Sincerely,_

_Jeff Tracy_


	24. Ways 47 and 48

**Way 47  
>Write love notes and leave them for your kids to find.<strong>

It had started out as a game of sorts between Alan and his daughter when she was first starting to learn how to read. At the age of only three years and one month, mind you.

Quite by accident, is how they'd discovered she even had a clue what letters meant at all, let alone what they meant when squashed together to form words.

Earlier one run-of-the-mill morning, Alan had jotted down a note to remind himself to check in with Brains after lunch regarding one of the O-rings on Thunderbird Three's C Nacelle. All he'd written down on the business card-sized piece of paper was _O-ring_, and surmised it must've fallen out of his pocket when he pulled something else out of there while seated at the kitchen table.

Just after lunch, Melati had come toddling into the office where Jeff and Tin-Tin were working through a few issues regarding combustion in one of Tracy Corp's solid fuel systems projects, chanting, "O-ring, O-ring, O-ring," and clutching Alan's note in her hand.

Jeff hadn't been too surprised. After all, Alan had started reading at an even younger age. Tin-Tin had tested her daughter further, by writing simple words down and showing them to her. Each and every time, Mellie had correctly read the word.

Over time, the words became two, then three, then four, then long, complete sentences, then more complex words until, with assistance from her parents and all her relatives, she was reading at what was considered a third grade level by the time she was four years old.

But that wasn't where the little pieces of paper story ended, with that toddlerhood. It was something that Alan had never stopped doing to this day, even though his daughter was now sixteen years old and had been joined by two younger brothers and several more cousins.

Each and every day, at some random spot in the villa, Alan would write down a handful of words on a small piece of paper, fold it in half, and leave it lying out. Everyone in the family knew if they saw the paper before Melati did, they weren't to touch it, look at it or tell her its whereabouts. Mellie would find it on her own.

Sometimes it was something simple like, _Thanks for your help,_ for times when Melati had assisted her father with work on a Thunderbird or pod vehicle.

Sometimes it was more along the lines of, _No, you can't go out on a date with that boy_, which usually led to a spectacular blowout that resulted in Melati retreating to her room for the rest of the day wearing a pout that rivaled her father's.

But sometimes, like today, after Mellie's heart had been broken by the jackass Alan had warned her not to date in the first place, it was nothing more than three very simple and very heartfelt words on that little piece of paper which turned Mellie's tears to a small smile. Which prompted her to scour the island until she found her father, and cocooned herself in his embrace. Which made her whisper those same three words into her father's ear after she'd finished crying on his shoulder, and really and truly mean them.

Sometimes _I love you_ is all it takes. And sometimes, only your dad's unconditional love can mend your broken teenage heart.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 48<br>Make some snacks for the kids as a surprise.**

"What're you doing, Mother?"

"Jeff! You're home early!"

"I decided to take the afternoon and get the boys over to the launchpad. I promised them they could have a look at the RAD-117 before she goes up on Monday."

"Oh, they'll be so tickled, especially Scott, John and Alan!"

"That's what I was thinking. So what's that you're doing there?"

"Just cutting up some cheese and summer sausage for a snack. Summertime play makes for hollow legs in growing boys. You used to eat an entire roll of my summer sausage in one sitting!"

"They sure can pack it away, can't they? Listen, I have an idea. They don't know I'm home yet; let me do the snacks and take them out."

"Sounds good to me, I've got some laundry to put over anyway. Oh, and make sure you give the flavored water to Alan. He can't stand the plain stuff."

"Will do."

* * *

><p>"I'm hungry."<p>

"Virgil, you're always hungry."

"Just because _you_ eat like a bird, John."

"Knock it off, guys. You know Grandma will be out with some snacks soon."

"But I'm hungry _now_!"

"Alan, stop whining."

"Shut up, Johnny."

"Scott, Alan told John to shut up."

"Gordon, you're a tattletale!"

"Am not!"

"See what you started, Virg?"

"Sorry, Scott."

"Where is Grandma with those snacks, anyway? Maybe I ought to go in and give her a hand."

"Scott, every time you try that, she always shoos you away."

"Yeah, John, you're right. Guess I'll just wait here with the rest of…oh."

"Oh? Oh, what?"

"_Dad!_" "_Daddy!_" "Father?" "Hi, Dad." "Hey!"

"Snacks, boys?"

"Look, Gordo, they're in the shapes of stars!"

"And planets, Al, and rockets!"

"Is this Jupiter?"

"That it is, John."

"What's with the fancy snack-cutting, Father?"

"Well, Scott, I think it's time to take a trip to the launchpad over at Kennedy."

"Virg?"

"Yeah, Scott?"

"I'd suggest earplugs."

"What? Why?"

"Because as soon as Alan, Gordon and John realize Dad's taking us to Kennedy to see the RAD-117, their squeals will break our eardrums."

"Oh, God. Good point."

"Boys? Where are you going?"

"Just tell them where you're taking us. We'll be back when you're through."

"Gordo?"

"What, Al?"

"Why is Daddy laughing so hard?"


	25. Ways 49 and 50

**Way 49  
>Do you say yes all the time? Use no when you mean it, even if they don't like it.<strong>

"Dad, can I—?"

"No."

"But Dad, I just wanted to—"

"No."

"How can you keep saying no, you don't even know what I was going to ask?"

"Actually, I _do_ know what you were going to ask. You were going to ask if you could inspect the riding lawnmower which, in Virgil-speak, means taking it apart to the very last nut and bolt, and then not being able to get it back together again so I have to buy the fifth lawnmower in as many months."

"That's not what I was going to ask."

"Don't pout, son. Go wash up for dinner."

* * *

><p>"Jeff?"<p>

"Mm?"

"What's the matter with Virgil?"

"Oh, he's just unhappy because I told him no."

"Maybe you ought to try saying yes once in a while. It works wonders."

"If you say so, Luce."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 50 is a companion piece to Way 49.<em>

**Way 50  
>Do you say no all the time? Say yes once in a while.<strong>

"Dad, can I—?"

"Yes."

…

…

"Really?"

"Yep. Really."

"But you don't even know what I was going to ask!"

"I'm trying something out for your mother. So the answer is yes."

"All _right_! Thanks, Dad!"

* * *

><p>"Jeff?"<p>

"Yeah."

"Honey, why is Virgil out in the front yard taking the riding lawnmower apart?"

…

…

"Jeff? Why are you facepalming?"


	26. Ways 51 and 52

_Author's Note: Going a bit darker this time, playing in the realm of the resident bad guy (and I don't write him like he's a buffoon – unless it's purposely for laughs – so welcome to what is heretofore known as Hood-verse)._

**Way 51  
>Hold their hands, literally.<strong>

She was born the day her mother died.

Her father was a powerful man. Ruthless, tyrannical. When he saw something he wanted, he didn't ask to obtain it. Didn't accept being told no. He just took.

His possessions were many, and included not only an opulent palace, priceless art, gold and jewels beyond compare. No, there was much more he owned than mere objects, and yet often he treated them as though they were worth less than the Van Gogh or the Picasso that hung on his bedroom walls.

They were his slaves. Men and women and children from all over the world, living in his temple and doing his bidding. Trained to obey, to never question. To never raise their eyes, to never speak aloud. They wore what he provided, unless he chose that they should wear nothing at all.

Their numbers in the hundreds, he had fathered many children with the females. Children who were raised by the slaves collectively, to become the next generation who would serve him. For he would live longer than most of the adult slaves he owned. Because he was different.

He had wealth. He had men and women to attend to every need, every desire. Physicality, sexuality, they were part of everyday life. If the mood struck, he would grab a slave and have his way with him or her right then and there. It didn't matter who was around, what the slave had been doing. He'd never had to curb his appetites, deny himself anything.

And if someone else dared deny _him_ something, it meant they would die by his hand, and he would take what he wanted anyway.

But she had never known this man, this monstrous creature born of demon and human, because he'd never been that way with her. She had never questioned not having a single person she could point to as 'Mother,' for all the women and men of the temple treated her as though she were a living sculpture from his massive collection, seeing to her every need, guiding her and protecting her from the more heinous goings-on.

She never knew that as soon as he'd seen she was a girl, rather than the boy he had been promised, he had ended her mother's life with his bare hands.

At first, he'd wanted nothing to do with her, telling the slaves to take her away and raise her with the other slave children. The woman he had chosen to bear his heir had come with the guarantee that the first child of her womb would be a boy. He would have a son to teach, to pass his knowledge and magic and riches along to. A boy that would grow to be the man who, when at last it was time for him to die, would become the one to take control of his vast empire.

But she had been born a girl, and after the first week, he had found himself purposely trying to be wherever she was. Inexplicably drawn to find her when she was strapped to a slave girl's back, or lying in a bassinet or carrier while those looking after her worked. Taken up to the roof at night to watch the stars and moon, or left in the room used for a nursery with whichever slave was playing nursemaid that day.

He found himself seeking her out.

He found himself watching her.

He found himself wanting to hold her.

And so it was, when she was but thirteen days old, that he found her in an anteroom with the slave girl who was caring for her that day. As taught, the slave stopped all motion right where she was when he entered, the _sari_ she was mending falling to her lap.

He ordered her out of the room. She knew better than to take the baby with her, for he would have told her if she should. She left, fearing for the infant's safety.

She need not have been concerned.

The small baby girl, barely eight pounds now, was asleep in an underarm carrier on the floor near the wall. He crept over to her and stood staring down at her. Her features made it clear he was her father, with her almond-shaped eyes and her sturdy-looking body. A strong, sure jawline and the simple syndactyly which made the insides of her second and third toes on both feet slightly joined at their bases. But her hair wasn't black. What little fuzz covered her head was so blonde it was very nearly white.

Her eyes opened and he held his breath as she gazed up at him. They were darkest blue, mirroring the color of his own eyes. He had fathered so many children, and knew that this was typical of those born of Caucasian females, as this child had been. But he wondered what color they would turn out to be in the end. Would they remain this color, like his? Would her hair turn dark, as his had been before he'd lost it when the demon had taken possession of him?

She gazed up at him, unafraid, and it was this that captured his attention the most. All the slave children feared him from the time of their birth, as though they could sense this man who had fathered them was to be their captor for their entire lives.

But not this little one. She watched him, and then she reached out. He sank to his knees on the floor next to her, mesmerized by the tiny fingers, the tiny hands. She was wrapped in a threadbare blanket and he suddenly became incensed, wanting to order the slave girl who'd been watching her put to death for daring to place his daughter in such poor cloth.

It made no difference that he himself had rejected the infant, and told them to treat her like any other slave child.

He reached toward her, hand so large he could have held her steady in the palm of it. Her rosebud lips parted and she yawned, but her little hand remained stretched out to him. The tip of his index finger touched her palm, and her hand closed instantly around it.

He found his fingers closing closing, engulfing the tiny hand in return.

That was the moment he fell in love. The moment that began to change him. The moment that the Hood started to think about someone other than himself…for the first time in his life. There, in the midst of the world he had created out of greed, lust, hatred, and pure evil, he held the hand of the one who be his undoing.

He saw it as clearly as he saw her.

And yet he knew he could not stop it.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 52 is a companion piece to Way 51, continuing in the dark, strange world of the Hood. (Hood-verse)<em>

**Way 52  
>Take your child to work with you and explain what you do for a living. <strong>

Thereafter, only his most trusted three slaves were allowed to touch the little girl. He named her Ana, simply because he felt it was the name she chose for herself. He could tell things, sense things, and when he looked into her eyes and asked her who she was, this was the name that came to him.

The first time he picked her up, he was awkward. Six-foot-two, built like a tank, his bald head and harsh Asian look made people frightened of him at just a glance. He was used to taking by force, grabbing, being rough. Intimidating simply by being.

But this small creature, she required gentleness. She was breakable, and she could be hurt. For the first time in all his forty years, he gave consideration to the needs of another. To the treatment of another. For the first time, he _cared_.

He didn't identify it as such. At least, not at first. As far as he was concerned, she belonged to him like everything else he owned. And yet…there was something more. He insisted upon handling her himself, more often than not, though he left the more mundane tasks of caring for an infant to the slaves.

He carried her everywhere throughout the temple and its grounds. He explained what everything was, what it was all for. Every project, every experiment. Every piece of chattel from slave to the temple itself was described, named, catalogued, and its uses and value taught to her.

She was treated like a princess, and indeed, he called her so in his native language. _Putri saya_ were the words he used to address her more often than not, cradling her in his arms even when she was old enough to walk and run on her own.

Dressed only in the most luxurious fabrics, the most beautiful articles of clothing. Bathed in the finest, most pleasing scents. Her hair grew long and was the color of golden honey. Her eyes did not change, remaining the deep blue he'd inherited from his Mongolian ancestors. Her skin was smooth and looked as though she was always tanned, though no darker than he. Her smile brought forth the first genuine smile he had ever felt himself make.

And with each and every day that passed, she grew more and more entrenched in his heart. The heart he'd never known he had.

It never occurred to her to think that her life at the temple was out of the ordinary. She was given free reign for the most part, except when her father asked her to leave so he could punish or kill someone he felt had wronged him or disobeyed in some way. It was something he simply couldn't do in front of her. Something that had never, ever bothered him before.

He also never showed her the dungeon. One day, she would be introduced to it. She would learn to wield the whip and work everything within its walls. But…somehow, she was still…too pure. Too innocent. Lily white and angelic, in his eyes, and he couldn't bring himself to change her into…into…

Into him.

When she reached the age of thirteen, he began to despair of ever being able to do so. Had his Ana been born a boy, she would have been torturing her own prisoners by now, would have been doing with her slaves as she saw fit, whether punishment or sex.

But she expressed no desire for cruelty, no interest in anyone at the temple but him, always coming to his throne at the end of the day and crawling into his lap for him to hold her. She told him each time that it was her favorite part of the day, being in his arms. He managed to tell her one evening that soon she would be too old for such things, though it bothered him to say the words.

"Never, Father," she said with an impish grin, and then kissed his cheek and ran off to continue her studies.

He would show her more of his world, this world he was raising her to take part in. To eventually take over. He _would_.

But he was learning the hard way that the purity and innocence of a daughter is the one thing a father will fight more fiercely to protect than almost anything else.

The older she became, the harder it would be for him to shield all his activities from her. To shield from her his pursuit of his half-brother…her half-uncle. To shield from her the absolute depths of his cruelty, the violent results of his temper.

He sat upon his throne, rigid, tense. Because there was only one way to preserve her kindness, her sweetness, her purity of soul. Only one way to ensure his own demon didn't take it from her like it had taken his own from him.

He would have to send her away. This child he hadn't even wanted at first, to whom he was devoted. The child he…loved.

And he did. So that she would never know what he truly did for a living. So that she would never know who and what he was.


	27. Ways 53 and 54

**Way 53  
>Speak as one with your wife, so your kids don't play you off on one another.<strong>

Raising a bunch of kids on Tracy Island took a lot of coordination. In fact, some days, Jeff observed that it was much more complicated than running a conglomerate of billion-dollar businesses and International Rescue, combined.

It was easy to love them.

It wasn't always so easy to make sure each and every adult was sending the same message.

If the kids wanted to go for a swim, they'd ask Gordon. Like Gordon would ever say no, dropping what he was doing (if he could) right then and there to join them and ensure their safety.

Never mind that Tin-Tin had told Mellie no swimming until the next two pages in her Math workbook were complete.

If the kids wanted to go for a ride in one of the smaller all-terrain vehicles, they'd ask Virgil. Virgil could never turn down a chance to operate any sort of machinery, but he particularly enjoyed this one that he'd designed and built solely for the purpose of ferrying small children from one end of the island to another.

Never mind that Scott had told D.J. he needed him to stay close so he could go to Sydney with his mother in an hour.

If the kids wanted to play dress-up, they'd ask Tin-Tin. She had ever so much fun rummaging through the trove of old clothes from days gone by down in the storage units deep inside the island, and helping the children put on hats and boots, shoes and coats, scarves and dresses, shirts and ties. Then she'd take tons of photos for them to all laugh over later, especially the ones of Jackson wearing a feather boa.

Never mind that Gordon had expressed extreme displeasure over his son wearing anything that was made of feathers. Especially if it was pink.

It never failed to amaze each and every one of them how unintentionally devious the kids could be. They knew exactly who to go to for the specific thing they wanted, whether individually or in a group. (Or, as Alan referred to it, a 'pack of wild dogs.')

When Kaya said no, sometimes Scott accidentally said yes.

When John wouldn't give permission, sometimes Ann would.

It was a little bit nuts, but they solved it the way Tracys always solved everything: by looking at every angle, coming up with a plan of action, and executing that plan.

D.J. wasn't so happy anymore that his dad was the field commander. It sucked when the other kids stuck their tongues out at you because your dad was the one tasked with telling them what to do.

But it started working, and boy, did their watch communicators get a workout.

"Hey, John. Aurora just asked if I could take her out in the boat."

"Little minx. I said no boating until she finished cleaning her room, Scott."

"I figured."

And…

"Hey, Gordo. D.J. wants me to take him and Jack up to the observatory to check out the solar flare."

"And I told D.J. he couldn't take Jack anywhere until Elaine had given him his bath, John."

"Agh. Okay, I'll find Lainie and hand him over."

"And D.J.?"

"Gotta check with Scott on that one."

Oh, the kids only got more sneaky with how and when and who they asked for what, but more often than not, their parents and uncles and grandfathers – and even Brains on the odd occasion they came to him – effectively shut down their efforts to circumvent chores or homework or unwanted trips to nearby countries.

Life returned to some semblance of smooth after they got it through the kids' heads that they couldn't play any of the adults off on each other anymore.

Until D.J. came up with a plan to hide all their wristwatches…

* * *

><p><strong>Way 54<br>Snuggle with your kids.**

Brains had never really been comfortable around children.

Scott's D.J. had been the first one he'd been around for any extended period of time as an adult, but since he kept to the lab more hours than not, he rarely spent any time with the boy, really.

And then along came Alan and Tin-Tin's Melati, followed by John's Aurora and Gordon's little Jackson. Four kids on Tracy Island, and more at any one time than Brains was equipped to handle.

Instead of admiring their smiles or trying to determine which parent they looked like more, he would watch them like lab experiments; study the angles and degrees their hands and feet and legs and arms and heads moved and mentally calculate their heights and weights at six-month intervals from now until they turned thirty.

Instead of laughing when one of them belched on a father's shoulder, or made a funny face or sneezed so loudly they startled themselves, he studied their activities and mannerisms in an attempt to determine how much of human behavior we are born with, and how much is learned. How much is genetic, where the child does something exactly the same way as a parent even though they aren't yet cognizant of their own individuality, and how much they pick up as they get older.

Brains was just different. Puzzles motivated him. Facts. Figures. Equations. Quantum mechanics. Physics. New ways of doing things, of looking at things. These were what consumed his mind every waking moment, and most sleeping ones as well.

He didn't really understand the softness that changed Scott's face from Field Commander mode to 'Daddy' when his son barreled across the room to leap into his arms as he returned from Thunderbird One.

He didn't quite get how formerly somewhat spoiled and emotionally immature Alan could be the most responsible individual Brains had ever met when he had his daughter to look after. How he could educate her so effortlessly, offering advice on what a grown-up would do. It seemed like only yesterday that Brains was shaking his head when Alan and Tin-Tin would have one of their many volcanic fights, yet now they worked together as a team, of a like mind in all things Melati so that she received the same instruction from both parents.

He didn't know what to do with the flush of embarrassment he felt watching John turn into a babbling, cooing mess of a man when his little baby girl graced him with her very first smile, or the first time she managed to give him a disgustingly slobbery kiss on the lips when she was but one year of age.

He couldn't fathom how Gordon's eyes changed so dramatically when his little boy came into his line of sight, softening so completely, full of what he assumed was love. So much so that Brains always had to look away, so uncomfortable was he with such a blatant display of emotion.

So he kept to himself, working away at what made him happy, and smiling politely on the rare occasions he crossed paths with a wee Tracy who wanted his response to something.

That was all well and good until the day he entered the Office to find something he'd never before witnessed: a pile of human beings in the middle of the floor between Jeff's desk and the portrait wall. The couch had been shoved off to the side, and he stopped short when he realized that Jeff himself was in the center of – or, more accurately, at the _bottom_ of – the pile of people.

He blinked and adjusted his glasses.

Scott's hair could be seen, and Virgil's, somewhere among the moving, writhing mass of legs and arms. There was John and Alan and Gordon. It was all the Tracy men, and piled atop and around them were the four Tracy grandchildren. They were…what were they doing, exactly?

"And that's what you get for challenging your grandpa to a wrestling match!" Jeff crowed, tickling D.J. mercilessly.

Brains just _stared_.

He'd sort of gotten used to the fathers acting kind of silly around these kids, and even Virgil, who didn't have his own children at this point, but was gleefully happy to play doting uncle. But while he'd always noticed Jeff was generous with hugs and kisses and story time, he'd never seen him act…act like…like…

"Come here, Mellie, give your grandpa a kiss!" Jeff lifted the toddler and rucked up her shirt with his nose, then blew very loudly on her belly until her face was red from laughter, and all his sons were doing the same to the other kids.

…like that.

"Brains!"

He practically jumped out of his skin when the little voice called his name. Six-year old D.J. extracted himself from the pile and came running up to him. He grabbed his hand and looked up at him expectantly.

"Er…" Brains cleared his throat. "What can I do for you, D.J.?" He tried unsuccessfully to pull his hand away.

"Come wrestle with us!"

Brains felt all the color drain out of his face. "I'm, er, afraid I'm far too busy, to, uh—"

"No, you're not!" Mellie crowed. At four, she was as precocious as both her parents put together. She wriggled away from her grandfather and ran up to Brains, grabbing his other hand.

Together, the children started to pull him toward the pile.

Brains was – no other way to put it – terrified.

That's when the klaxon sounded. Thunderbird Five was telling the Tracys that International Rescue was needed.

The boys and Jeff sprang into action just as D.J. and Mellie managed to get Brains over to where they and the younger two had been playing with their grandfather, dads and uncles. Brains stood there with a child attached to each pant leg and a fifteen-month-old Aurora being handed swiftly to him by John, followed by a baby Jack being shoved into his other arm.

This required a slightly different approach.

So he sat down cross-legged on the area rug as Scott and Virgil, John and Gordon, Alan and Tin-Tin all disappeared to the Thunderbirds. As Jeff seated himself at the desk, reviewing information received from the automated Thunderbird Five.

Aurora laid her head on Brains' shoulder.

Jack curled into his chest.

Mellie threw herself across his criss-crossed legs.

D.J. stood behind him and put his arms around his neck.

Jeff looked up, took in the sight of them, and smiled. "Sometimes snuggling's just the thing," he said, before bringing Scott's feed up live in his digital portrait.

Brains listened as the younger children's breathing evened out. Watched as they fell asleep in his arms, as Mellie soon followed suit on his lap. As D.J. sat down next to him and leaned against his right arm while he watched his father, grandfather and uncles go back and forth about a mine rescue.

Maybe Jeff was right about 'the thing.' Maybe there _was_ something Brains had never considered about children. Well, at least, about _these_ children. Maybe there _was_ something to be said for changing your behavior around them. For acting a lot less like a grown man and a lot more like a child yourself in their presence.

When Aurora stirred on his shoulder, turned her face toward his and kissed his cheek, Brains blushed. And in that moment, firmly believed that yes…there was definitely something to be said for snuggling. Even if it wasn't your own children you were doing it with.


	28. Ways 55 and 56

**Way 55  
>Show your wife respect always. Make sure your kids do also.<strong>

Normally one to review every aspect of any situation before deciding on a course of action, there was one thing Penny had neglected to think about when she decided it was now or never where Jeff Tracy was concerned.

She'd been in love with the man for years. He seemed oblivious. So she tried dropping subtle hints at first. Unfortunately, while Jeff was undoubtedly highly intelligent, her efforts seemed completely lost on him.

So she upped the ante, and after four years of doing everything but whacking him across the shins with a two-by-four, she successfully got the man to open his eyes, go, "Oh," and kiss her properly.

She doubted whether she'd ever worked at anything this hard in her entire _life_. But he was worth it. She found that out the first time they made love. She found it out in the way he became so devoted to her it was almost like he was a completely different person. She found it out when he told her he loved her, and had for a long, long time…but had been too blind to see it.

And so they'd been married and married and married again. England, Kansas, New York, on Tracy Island. Why have one wedding when you could have four? The parties were grand, high society and her circle of friends celebrating the union of two really wealthy people. Everyone the Tracys knew from their hometown. All the people connected to the businesses.

And then the one for just the select few who knew they were International Rescue. Penelope was fairly certain she'd never seen anything quite so amusing as Ma and Jeremiah Tuttle vs. Tracy Island. There was something to be said for hillbillies trying to figure out how to close an automated door that wouldn't until you were out of the way.

But the one thing she hadn't quite thought through in all her time pursuing Jeff Tracy, was the fact that if and when they _did_ get married, it would make her the _de facto_ stepmother of five grown men. It didn't hit her until the last of International Rescue's agents had been ferried home, and she walked into the Lounge to find all five boys standing with their father in the middle of the room.

She looked at them.

She blinked.

That's when it hit her.

_Oh, good Lord._

They looked a little…uncertain, and were shooting strange glances at their father from time to time. She wasn't quite sure, but she suspected _they'd_ only just realized it, too.

"I've sent Parker to prepare some tea," she said, trying to act no differently than she had any other time she'd been on the island. "Would you care for any?" she asked, looking at each of them in turn.

"No thanks, Penny," Jeff said. Coffee man to the end, she knew, and sighed dramatically.

"I'll, uh…I'll have some, Lady…I mean…"

Penny resisted the urge to smile, hiding her mouth behind her closed fingers for a few seconds. "Lady Penelope will be just fine, Scott," she said, not quite successfully hiding her smile after all. "Nothing's changed, boys. Nothing at all."

"Except Alan can't flirt with you anymore," Gordon blurted out.

Alan's face went fire engine red.

John snorted and turned away, body shaking with laughter.

Scott glared at Gordon, who blushed.

Virgil rolled his eyes, walked forward and held out the crook of his arm. "Stroll along the beach?" he asked, with a small bow.

"Why, Virgil, that sounds lovely," she smiled, taking his arm. "We'll only be half an hour," she advised Jeff as they made their way toward the balcony stairs.

"Sure thing, Penny," Jeff said, and looked for all the world like he was trying _not_ to burst out laughing.

As she and Virgil made their way down long, curved staircase, Penny wondered if the thud she heard was Jeff cuffing Gordon in the back of the head, or Alan punching his lights out. They were all good men, with hearts of gold and enough mischief among them to keep her amused forever, she thought.

Besides, what better stepsons could you ask for than ones who would take you for a moonlight stroll on what was arguably the most peaceful, beautiful beach in the entirety of the Pacific?

"Figured it was an easy out for them," Virgil said by way of explanation.

"Hush and allow me to continue to believe it was pure chivalry on your part."

Virgil looked at her, surprised, as they made their way down to the sand, then chuckled, shook his head and led her to the water's edge. "He didn't mean to be disrespectful," he said, and she knew he was referring to Gordon.

"Of course not," she replied. "It was, however quite amusing."

"What he said or the fact that Alan very nearly died on the spot?"

Penelope let out a laugh that was most unladylike. "Both!"

Virgil agreed, and their laughter rang through the air all the way back up to the balcony where Jeff stood watching his new wife, and his son, with pride, love, and a sense of something he hadn't felt in a long, long time: a real, complete family.

He thought that, wherever she was, Lucy would approve.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 56<br>Take the time to really explain things to your children. Don't just say "because I said so."**

Alan was starting to understand why, growing up, whichever adults happened to be around at the time – and even his older brothers – had often answered his frequent barrages of questions with, "Because I said so."

See, Al was never the kid who just sulked and turned away when he was told no. He was never _ever_ the type to just go ahead and do whatever someone told him to do. No. Alan Tracy _always_ wanted to know why.

He never had an issue with performing a task as long as he understood the point. Virgil told him he'd get bedbugs if he didn't keep his room clean. He'd believed him, and then tried to kick his ass years later when he discovered that wasn't how you got bedbugs at all.

But sometimes he was simply so annoying, or whomever he was asking his questions of was so busy with something else, that he got the patented "Because I said so!" response.

Which just pissed him off no end.

Now, however, he was truly living out what his father had said to him the first time Melati had thrown up all over him at only two weeks old…just as he'd finished putting on a silk suit for an evening out with Tin-Tin. "Payback's a bitch, son," Jeff had chuckled.

Payback indeed. Because now Al was graced with a daughter who, aside from being frighteningly intelligent at five years of age, was absolutely gorgeous and had the big doe eyes to melt anyone's heart if she didn't get what she wanted.

And she constantly asked, "Why?"

"Why is the sky blue, Daddy?"

"Why does Scott fly Thunderbird One all the time, Daddy?"

"Why do we live on an island, Daddy?"

"Why did you name me Melati, Daddy?"

"Why is Grandpa K meditating again, Daddy?"

"How come I have to go to the mainland with Mommy?"

Oh, it never ended.

Alan thought he might just go a little crazy before his daughter got old enough to reason things out for herself rather than constantly hitting them all with twenty questions.

Payback most certainly _was_ a bitch.

"Why is payback a bitch, Daddy?"

Alan's eyes grew wide. He hadn't realized he'd said that out loud, nor that Mellie was even in the room.

And as he struggled to contain this situation before it became a disaster even International Rescue couldn't get him out of, he _knew_ he could hear his father laughing his ass off.

"Why are you hiding your face in your hands, Daddy?"

Ugh.


	29. Ways 57 and 58

_Author's Note: Way 57 refers to the events of the episode "Brink of Disaster."_

**Way 57  
>Ask for help if you need it. Don't suffer from excess pride.<strong>

Jeff Tracy had never been a man to ask for anything.

If he needed someone's resources for a new contract, he would go to the head of the company in question, spell out the benefits and costs to both organizations, and get their buy-in based on the numbers.

If there was too much paperwork for the Corporation or International Rescue, he simply delegated some of it to his sons.

If there was some sort of problem that needed solving, and he couldn't come up with what he felt was a perfect solution on his own, he simply called together the group of people best able to brainstorm and problem-solve for whatever was at hand, and worked with them to fix things.

He didn't _ever_ need help. Not Jeff Tracy.

On the farm as a kid, he'd done the chores his father and mother had given him, and rather than accept assistance from either of them or a farmhand, he stubbornly would complete each task himself, even if it meant little or no sleep before school the next day.

After Lucy's death, he'd done the best he could, but his family's large complement of relatives had come in and basically taken over, giving him the opportunity to sneak away and try to conceptualize a life that wasn't going to include his beloved wife. If anyone asked him, "Do you need help?" – whether they meant physically with the boys, or psychologically – Jeff had always waved them off.

But this situation right here, right now, this…completely intolerable mess he found himself in, well…he couldn't deny it. He needed help. He, Brains, Tin-Tin and that maddening jerk Grafton. And he needed help from the men he'd never allowed himself to ask for it from before: his own sons.

Well, help came. And that night, with Tin-Tin snuggled into Alan's arms as the two of them thought how close they'd come to never having this again; with Brains locked up in his lab doing only Heaven-knew-what in the aftermath of their near-death; and with Jeff seated alone at his desk wondering which course of action he should take to keep men like Grafton from being able to put people in peril like that ever again, Jeff was reconsidering the whole 'never asking for help' thing.

Of course, he could just brush it off as, "Well, Tin-Tin and Brains were with me," using that as the excuse for needing assistance.

But no. Jeff and the others had become the very victims he'd formed International Rescue to save the lives of in the first place, and putting in a call to them had made him no different from any of the other people in the world who called for help.

Except for one thing: they were his _sons_. Who'd had to save their own father's life.

He looked up as Scott walked into the Office, sauntered over, and sat down on the front corner of Jeff's desk. Their eyes met, and then looked away.

"Thunderbird 2 did pretty well out there," Scott finally said.

"Yes, looks like she can carry more weight than we thought," Jeff replied.

"I think Virgil's going to hit Brains up tomorrow for a discussion about increasing the tensile strength of her grabs, though," Scott said, scratching his chin.

"Good idea. I have to admit it did get a little hairy, not knowing whether she'd be able to hold onto us."

"You can chalk that up to Virgil knowing his 'bird," Scott said with a proud smile.

"Mm," Jeff grunted, nodding in agreement. He looked down at the small laptop in front of him, then back up at his eldest. "We need a plan for lobbying the council into upping the standards of construction so men like Grafton can't do this again."

"I agree, Father. It's what I wanted to talk to you about, actually."

"Oh? You have some ideas?"

"Yeah, I do."

Maybe Jeff was asking. Maybe Scott was offering. Maybe the both of them were too damn proud and too damn stubborn for their own good. Well, Jeff, decided, maybe for the second time in one twenty-four hour period, he _did_ need help. And maybe on some level, Scott understood that.

"Well," Jeff said, rising to his feet and gesturing for Scott to walk ahead of him, "why don't we discuss this over beers, then?"

Scott looked at his father, smiled, and nodded. "Sounds good, Dad."

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 58 was written as a companion piece to Way 55. It also references events in the episode "Atlantic Inferno."<em>

**Way 58  
>Accept who you are, but don't settle. Strive to improve yourself every day.<strong>

_I am emotionally constipated_.

There. Jeff had actually thought it.

_I am an emotionally constipated asshole_.

Yes. That was more descriptive, he felt. He wanted to make himself better. Make himself be more like he used to be.

Back in the day, Jeff had been equal parts manly jock and emotional sap. He'd _never_ been able to hide anything from Lucille, nor hide how he was feeling about her from anyone who happened to be in the vicinity.

But then, well, he'd sort of closed himself off pretty good after that. Not where his boys were concerned, certainly, because he loved them beyond all reason and made sure they knew it. But as far as any other kind of love was concerned, well, for Jeff, that was completely off the radar. Not ever going to happen. There'd only been one woman for him, and she was gone, and that was that.

And then…

Then Penny.

Now, a man in Jeff's position – head of multi-million dollar companies, head of International Rescue, recognizable throughout the world – he couldn't afford to have trysts. Liaisons. And especially once IR had started operating, he _really_ couldn't afford to let anyone get close.

That's what he told himself, and it was the story he was sticking to.

Except…

Penny.

Damn infuriating, aristocratic and yet completely down-to-Earth, too-smart-for-her-own-good and too-goddamn-beautiful-to-ignore Penny.

She pushed him. Pushed him _hard_.

And he withdrew.

So she eased up. Or so he thought.

Only to find himself alone with her at Bonga Bonga. Sheep be damned, it was IR he was worried about. He had to think about his sons, about what would happen if they were needed. So he couldn't pay any attention to the gorgeous, relaxed, _holy shit, is she coming on to me?_ woman sitting in the lounger next to his.

That was his story, and he was sticking to it.

Only…

She did not give up. Jeff, well, he couldn't use the IR excuse where she was concerned, because she was _part_ of IR. So that sort of went by the wayside.

And when he was on the island, he couldn't use the excuse of having to worry about how Scott would handle things in his absence.

And damn her, she knew it.

She was wearing _short shorts_. She was wearing a _tank top_. She was…_sweating_. She'd been playing doubles tennis with Scott, Virgil and John and _holy shit, did she just wink at me?_ looked more gorgeous than anyone had any right to after that sort of workout in eighty-two degree heat.

Thankfully she soon retired to her guest suite to shower and change, and Jeff decided that getting together with the head of IR's agents could bring huge problems if it didn't work out. They always said, workplaces romances were a bad idea for just that reason.

Wait…romances? _Romance_?

_I don't want to romance Lady Penelope!_

Except…

There she was, in a flowing cotton sundress that bordered on see-through for how thin the fabric was, and fit her body like a glove and…oh, Mother of God…_I can't get up from the desk now, how inappropr—_

But…

She was standing close. Way too close. _Far_ too close. She was looking down. Then she was looking into his eyes, and…oh.

_Oh._

He cupped his hand around the back of her slim, perfect neck, reeled her in, and kissed her.

Luckily no one came into the office over the course of the next thirty minutes.

Because there wouldn't have been _any_ story Jeff could've come up with to explain what he and the head of IR's agents…the wealthy British prim and proper Lady P…were doing in his desk chair during that timeframe.

_I am an emotionally constipated asshole._

He gathered her close as they both came down from their high and whispered into her ear, "I love you, Penny."

_Well, I used to be._

She beamed at him.

_Not anymore._

He smiled.

And Jeff knew instantly that he needed this woman by his side to better himself. It would be slow-going. It would be a day-by-day thing. But he could do it, he knew, as he looked into her crystal blue eyes.

_They_ could do it.


	30. Ways 59 and 60

_Author's Note: Way 59 AKA John whooping #1._

**Way 59  
>Smile at your children and your partner.<strong>

There hadn't been a lot to smile at in the early days post-Lucille. Even the antics of a three-year old, a one-year old and a newborn hadn't been enough to turn the corners of his mouth upwards.

Even successfully getting his first contract, worth hundreds of thousands of dollars right off the bat, hadn't put a smile on his face.

A woman flirting with him had only reminded him of what he'd lost.

Another contract, worth twice as much, only told him that yes, he could do this. He could provide a future for the family he and the love of his life had created together. That he now had to raise alone.

A cry in the middle of the night meant less sleep and a sharp reminder that his wife wasn't there to answer an infant's call of hunger.

His eldest's sullen face, look of determination, air of responsibility, served only to make him feel guilty.

His second eldest's quiet, serene, solid presence at only six years of age, served only to remind him that a kid barely into his school years was handling this way better than his own father was.

The kindness of relatives and strangers offering words or casseroles or advice, only served to remind him of the loss he was trying so hard to move past. Even now, a year and two months later, he was stuck. Well and truly stuck.

There was no reason to smile. Not anymore. Not without her.

Before, he'd smiled so much. So, _so_ much. Smiled. Laughed. Grinned. He was happy. He was loving and loved. He was physically affectionate; emotionally available.

After, there was pain. Only pain. Looking into the eyes of his sons, only reminders, bringing _more _ pain.

Until the Saturday when he was sitting in his home office, staring at a contract he needed to go over with a fine-toothed comb, but unable to concentrate for the sounds of laughter coming from outside. He recognized John's, Gordon's. He heard Virgil's voice, then more laughter.

He stood; walked to the window and looked out upon the vast yard of the farmhouse he'd moved them all back into to both be able to help his mother with the farm, and to get _her_ help with the boys.

They were at the tire swing on the huge oak tree in front of the house. Virgil was pushing John, then Gordon. Not too high. Not too fast. Just enough to make them giggle and want to fight for their next turn to come faster than it should.

And Scott was out there, too, little Alan in his arms. Alan, who was convinced he could do everything his older brothers could do at barely over a year of age, and then some. Scott was sitting against the tree opposite the branch that held the swing letting Al stand in between his legs.

Scott looked up from Alan. Looked up and up to the second floor of the farmhouse, and Jeff swore the boy was looking right at him. That's when Scott smiled, as their eyes met across forty feet of air and with a window in between.

The pen dropped from Jeff's right hand. Yes, he needed to work, needed to build the businesses.

But he needed to be with his sons, too.

He turned, left the office, went down the steps, through the living room and out the front door. Alan smiled even wider as his father approached. Scott rose to his feet, still holding to Alan's hands. John ran to Jeff, put his arms up into the air and yelled, "_Swing!_"

Jeff lifted his four-year old, slotted him into the tire swing, told him to hold on and pushed him gently. Little Johnny whooped and squealed in joy. And what did Jeff do?

Well, he smiled.

And when he did, it felt…good.

Goddamn good.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 60 AKA John whooping #2.<em>

**Way 60**

**Make amends when you're wrong or grumpy or harsh with your kids.**

There was only one thing worse than seeing your daughter cry, and that was being the one who'd _made_ her cry.

John buried his face in the crook of his arm for a moment. He shouldn't have been so harsh with Aurora, but…dammit, this experiment was _so_ sensitive, so delicate, and she'd just barreled into the room and started shouting about what D.J. had just said to her…he'd been startled, frustrated, angry and he'd snapped at her for the intrusion.

Yes, he should've locked the door, but he'd thought Aurora was with the other kids down at the pool for their daily swim. And he'd told both Ann and Tin-Tin, who were on Pool Time Duty today, that he couldn't be disturbed for the next ninety minutes.

But somehow, Aurora had left the pool and come to seek him out in the Roundhouse. That meant she'd snuck away from her own mother and her aunt, and somehow gotten all the way from one part of the island to another on her own, and that worry about her safety had combined with everything else to produce:

"Aurora, be _quiet_!" he'd pretty much yelled.

He'd never raised his voice at her before, and she was already nearly five years old. As soon as he'd snapped at her, her little face had crumpled, her blue eyes overrunning with tears, her lower lip trembling, and she'd gone running from the room with a wail.

So now he was searching for her, high and low. He'd contacted Ann, who'd panicked and was on her way to the Roundhouse to help find their daughter. Who'd not realized Aurora had gone anywhere but into the poolhouse to use the bathroom and get some more pool toys.

John searched and searched. At last, reaching the final room in the circular building, he opened the door and heard soft crying from inside. He left the light off and moved further into the room. The door swished shut behind him.

This room had a few tables and chairs, but not much else. It really wasn't ever used except to leave sensitive experiments in, like the other one John himself had been using. Aurora was seating up against the curved wall of windows, knees drawn up to her chest, face buried in the little hollow created by them and her arms.

Her body shook as she cried.

John felt his own lower lip start to quiver, bit it back, and moved across the room, where he knelt down next to her.

"Baby," he whispered. "Aurora?"

She looked up; tear tracks lining her face, tears still spilling out faster than they could fall away.

"Baby, I'm so sorry I snapped at you," John said, hating himself a lot right now for it.

She hiccupped a sob and started crying all over again. So John did the only thing he could think to do: he sat down on his bum, gathered her into his arms, and held her close.

"I was wrong to snap at you. You startled me."

"I ruined _*hic*_ your experiment, Daddy!"

"What?"

"I-I-I'm not crying c-c-cause you y-yelled at me!" she wailed. "I-I-_*hic*_-I'm crying because I-I ruined your ess-_pear_-ment!"

She wrapped her arms around his neck, her legs around his middle and _sobbed_ into his shoulder.

Wait…she wasn't crying because he'd snapped at her? But because she thought she'd…oh.

"Honey, honey, come on, now, it's okay. I'll just set up a new experiment, and it'll just have to go for its twenty-four hour cycle again. It's okay, really."

"Mommy told us we had to leave you alone for ninety minutes, and I disobeyed."

"Do you even know how long ninety minutes is?" John asked, a twinkle in his eye.

"No," she pouted, not happy to admit to not being the Knower of All Things.

"Well, there you have it. Besides, you know what? Mommy also told me never to raise my voice to you, and I did. So _I_ disobeyed, too."

Aurora sniffled, her blue eyes shining and big and round when she looked at him. "Does that mean," she whispered dramatically, "that we're both in trouble?"

"You bet your bippy, you are," came her mother's voice, surprising them both.

Ann looked at them with narrowed eyes, trying for all she was worth to look stern and about ready to unleash a scolding worthy of the Tracy matriarch. But she never could fake anything like anger for very long, and wound up smiling at her husband and her daughter, and shaking her head.

"What am I going to do with the two of you, making my heart flip-flop like that?" she asked, sitting down next to them. "And what's got my little angel crying so hard, huh?"

Aurora looked back at her father after crawling into her mother's lap. He winked conspiratorially at her. "I won't tell if _you_ won't tell."

"Oh, no, you two are ganging up on me again, aren't you?" Ann asked with mock seriousness.

Aurora giggled and nodded, her golden ringlets bouncing up and down and up and down with every bob of her head.

John looked into her now-happy eyes, and then into the equally happy ones of his wife and said, "Aurora, I need your help to set up a second experiment. What do you say?"

This led to her jumping up and down and clapping and squealing with shouts of "Yes, yes!" that echoed off the mostly empty room's walls.

"John, you won't be able to set up another crystal chip test with that noisy one helping you."

"_I_ know that," he said, wrapping his arm around her shoulders as they followed their daughter out of the room, "and _you _know that, but _she_ doesn't know that."

"What happened, anyway, to get her crying like that?"

John's face puckered. "She barged into the room and I snapped at her. Can you believe she wasn't crying because I yelled, but because she knew she'd ruined the experiment?"

Ann smiled and shook her head. Only a five-year old with Tracy genes would care more about the experiment than getting yelled at, she mused. "Oh, John," she said just as the door to the experiment room closed behind Aurora, leaving them alone in the hall.

"Mm?" he said, leaning in and giving his wife a kiss on her temple.

"You really _are_ in trouble, you know."

"What? I am?"

"Mmhmm," she replied, looking up at him with a smile.

"Okay, so what's my penance?" he asked, deciding to just man up and take his medicine for having yelled at their little girl.

She leaned up onto her tiptoes, put her lips to his ear and whispered, "Having another one." Then she stepped back and watched with no small amount of amusement as he tried to put two and two together.

When he finally came up with four, his eyes widened.

Ann tried not to laugh.

"Really?" he croaked, then gulped.

"Really," she said with a smile and a nod.

The whoop John let out was so loud, Jeff later swore he heard it all the way in the villa…


	31. Ways 61 and 62

**Way 61  
>Periodically assess your life and change course if needed. Don't be unhappy just because you think you can't change.<strong>

It quickly became apparent that being an active astronaut was no longer in the cards.

Jeff was moving on in NASA, on to bigger and better things. That meant longer missions; more time in space. It would, of course, have been difficult being away from his family for months at a time if Lucy was still around. But now, with her gone, his absence for so long was simply not an option.

However difficult it was to acknowledge, Jeff's space career had to come to an end.

Sometimes he wondered, on the rare occasions when he'd accompany the boys or Brains to Thunderbird 5, when he'd stare out of the viewing ports at the vastness of space beyond, what it would've been like if he'd been able to continue his career. If he'd been able to take those deep space voyages, explore the planets in their solar system, and maybe one day even get to journey beyond their solar system before retiring to regale grandchildren with his past adventures.

How things would have been so, so different if only she had lived.

They probably would've stayed in Florida, or maybe moved out to Texas, depending on where his work and his training and his missions were based. They probably would've had even more children. Lucy, she wanted a whole building's worth, the crazy woman, and Jeff was just crazy enough to want whatever _she_ wanted.

He wondered if they ever would've had a girl, or simply would've filled whatever state they were living in with more and more Tracy men as the years went by.

He wondered where Scott would be now, advancing as quickly as he had through the ranks of the Air Force before quitting to join International Rescue. Scott had wanted to follow in his father's footsteps, to move from the military to NASA and make that his career.

He wondered where Virgil would be now, the engineer who loved big machines, had loved tinkering with anything mechanical from the time he could properly hold a screwdriver. He could've taught, he could've gotten research grants, he could've been working for Tracy Engineering. Or he could've gone off and done his own thing with the kind of talent he had.

He wondered where John would be now. John, whose knowledge of the cosmos seemed limitless, who knew more than Jeff would ever know about things like magnetars and quasars and black holes and wormholes. Who lived for discovering new things, defining them, sharing his knowledge of space with the world.

He wondered where Gordon would be now. Living in an underwater community, maybe, or working side-by-side with people like Kyrano as they sought better ways to provide fresh food to the Moon colonies, or for later ventures to other planets humans were forcing to sustain life.

He wondered where Alan would be now, perhaps racing every circuit the world 'round with beautiful women on each arm and a fast car beneath him at every turn. Maybe he would've gone into something having to do with space, too. Maybe he would've gone to work for one of the Tracy companies. Maybe he would've just struck out on his own, done his own thing. Who could say?

And there were Kyrano and Tin-Tin, living on their island haven and working with them, protected by their secrecy and money and technology from the half-brother who wanted nothing more than to see the remainder of his family destroyed. Would Kyrano have lived this long without Tracy Island there to keep him safe? And what would have become of Tin-Tin, the brilliant engineer in her own right who worked tirelessly alongside Brains and Jeff's sons to create, invent, perfect and fix technology that was far beyond what the rest of the world knew?

Brains. The incredible mind that lived inside the somewhat geeky man who looked so much younger than his mid-fifties, where they assumed his age now was. Who sought Jeff's patronage as much as he did his protection once it became clear that nefarious people would give anything to get their hands on what his brain could dream up.

When Lucille had died, a part of Jeff had died along with her. And yet, because he'd wanted to find a way to keep that from happening to anyone else ever again, so many, many more people than one had lived once International Rescue had begun operating. Between that and all their philanthropic endeavors, they'd bettered lives the world 'round, saved people who would otherwise have died.

"The needs of the many," Gordon had once quoted from a sci-fi movie he'd seen, "outweigh the needs of the few." Then he'd looked into Jeff's eyes. "Or the one," he'd added.

And somehow, that had made sense to Jeff in some sort of cosmic or universal way. Lucille lived long enough to bring forth the men who would one day become the saviors of the world, as one website called them. And she had died to make Jeff want to do something about how many other people died when really, they didn't need to.

It didn't make it easier, even all these years later. It wasn't right to him to justify the loss of his soulmate with the lives of complete strangers. And yet, he innately knew this was exactly what had happened. Whether by design or by chance, she had died so that others could live.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned to find John next to him. "It's really beautiful, isn't it?" John asked softly, turning to look out the viewing port.

Jeff just nodded as he continued to gaze at the pulsing light of the star John told him was HD 212399. It was a bright giant, and its orange-red color was mesmerizing.

"You ever regret not making it out there?" John asked, nodding toward the depths of the universe far beyond the confines of Thunderbird 5.

Jeff turned to look at his son, and smiled when John's eyes met his. "No," he said. He turned and looked all around them at the space station that hummed and throbbed around them. "No, I don't."

He wondered if his middle son could see the wistful look in his eyes, though, when they returned to HD 212399. Wondered if John could feel, astronaut-to-astronaut, that yes, there was a little bit of regret there.

Didn't have to wonder anymore when John squeezed his dad's shoulder and said, "Come on. I think we have time for a bit of exploring before we have to be back planetside."

Jeff's eyes crinkled. His boy was going to take him out there, out where Jeff hadn't ever been able to get to on his own. At eighty-four years of age, maybe not the brightest move, to be heading further out into space than even Thunderbird 3 had ever gone. But maybe the last chance he'd ever have before he died.

He'd continually tried to better himself over the years, since he'd made the decision to leave the family farm and become a pilot, and then an astronaut. He'd tried to better things for his sons after Lucy died, then tried to better things for the world, with International Rescue. He looked at the three people who now manned Thunderbird 5 in lieu of any Tracys, now that IR was bigger, better and no longer such a secret as it once had been.

The space station agents smiled at him, nodded, and shook his hand as he and John headed toward the airlock. "Where is it exactly you're taking me?" he asked as they waited for the airlock to equalize the pressure between 5 and 3.

"Where do you want to go?"

They stepped onto the flight deck of Thunderbird 3 and Jeff sat down in the copilot's seat as 3's viewscreen flickered to life. "Out there," he replied as the stars and planets appeared before them. "Wherever you want to take me, son."

John smiled as he ignited Thunderbird 3's engines. "You got it, Dad," he said with a smile.

Jeff never thought he'd be able to live without Lucy. Or that he'd be able to be the father his boys needed him to be with her gone. Or that he'd ever be anything other than an astronaut. Or that he'd be able to let others into International Rescue. Or that he'd never ever get to go into deep space.

Jeff guessed maybe he'd done okay with himself after all. And, as he looked at his son with pride and love shining in his eyes, with his boys as well.

With _their_ boys.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 62<br>Take a class or learn a new skill with your kids.**

There was never going to be a time when he would be good at this. He knew this with absolute certainty.

Because there was something about Jeff Tracy and tiny little beads and hair-thin fishing line that simply did not mix.

Give him a complex business problem to solve, and he was your Ace in the Hole.

Give him a busted arm on a crying boy and he could have that kid smiling and proud of his cast in no time.

Give him an organization so Top Secret the world could never know who they were, and Jeff could run the damn thing blindfolded with both hands tied behind his back.

Give him a tray full of brightly colored beads no larger than the head of a pin, a roll of fishing line that he doubted could keep a minnow from breaking it in half, and a seven-year old granddaughter who insisted that he help with her project, and Jeff felt as ridiculous as he probably looked.

He became all thumbs, for one thing.

He got frustrated within ten minutes, for another.

But the worst thing of all, was he couldn't even make his little Melati, his first granddaughter, the necklace that she wanted.

"That's okay, Grandpa," she said, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. "I can have Mommy help me."

He felt like a damn failure, and all because of stupid little tiny beads.

So he stayed up all night.

Stayed up at that table with that tray of beads and that damn fishing line and his too-large hands and about twelve cups of coffee.

And in the morning, when Melati bustled into the kitchen for her breakfast and juice, Jeff was still sitting there. The beads and the fishing line were nowhere to be seen. He was exhausted. He probably looked like hell and smelled even worse, for all his coffee-laden morning breath and lack of a shower.

But when he held up the small necklace before Mellie's eyes, and she squealed and clapped her hands together, he figured well, maybe it was worth one sleepless night if it put that kind of smile on the little girl's face.

She put the necklace on, showed it off to everyone who was awake (and woke those who weren't to do the same), and then found him in the second-floor hall as he was on his way to his bedroom suite.

"Grandpa!" she called out. He stopped as she came running up to him and launched herself into his arms. She wrapped those arms around his neck, as before, and put her little mouth next to his ear. "I love you, Grandpa," she whispered. Then she squeezed his neck and wrapped her legs around him.

Jeff smiled, held her tight, and felt his old heart melt a little more, like it did whenever any of his grandchildren showed him such love. "I love you too, Mellie," he said gruffly.

Yeah, staying up all night _had_ been worth it. If for no other reason than this.


	32. Ways 63 and 64

_Author's Note: Look out! We're headed into Hood-verse again! This is a follow-up to Way 52._

**Way 63  
>Act as if you're the best dad ever.<strong>

It was her fourteenth birthday.

She squealed when her father told her he was sending her away, because he posited it as a generous birthday gift, all-expenses paid, off to have the time of her life, and off to experience the world.

She didn't know that as he forced himself to smile, inside his heart was breaking.

She didn't know this hug would be the last hug she ever got from him.

She didn't know that she and she alone had taught this man how to love someone besides himself so much, that he was willing to let her go so that she would never turn into what he was.

And when she held him tight with a huge smile on her face and said, "You're the best father _ever_," what she didn't know was that this strange, twisted, evil man – for what he was doing here and now – sort of _was_.

Because he looked into her eyes, and willed her memories of him…of the temple…of the slaves…of the only life, home and family she had ever known in all her fourteen years…away. Zombie-like, she was escorted from his side. The effects would wear off, but the memories would never return.

He watched the helijet lift into the sky, carrying her away.

He swallowed hard as it disappeared over the jungle canopy.

His heart shattered completely.

And his true reign of terror began.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Beware…Hood-verse continues. He sorta takes over. When I agree to do one for him, he wants the second one for himself, too. Greedy bastard. Way 64 is set many years after Way 63.<em>

**Way 64  
>Imagine you've only got one week left to live. How would you treat your kids? What's stopping you from doing that right now?<strong>

He was a marked man. Not even his precious demon could save him from the wrath of Jeff Tracy. Not his black magick, not his disguises. Not his technology, not his guards. It was only a matter of time before the man behind International Rescue found him, and destroyed him.

Since sending his Ana away, he had performed more wicked acts against humanity within his temple walls and without, than he had in all his previous years combined. His anguish and sorrow turned to rage and extreme cruelty. He wanted to hurt anyone and everyone that so much as dared to put a foot wrong, to even glance in his direction.

His half-brother, his half-niece, and the family who protected them were at the top of the list of people he hated with more intensity and passion than the fire of a thousand suns.

When he finally got his hands on a Tracy, it had been the youngest, Alan, he'd managed to kidnap.

And do things to. Things that put Jeff Tracy on his trail like never before.

Alan's family had rescued him, and the Hood had managed to escape by the skin of his teeth. But the once grand temple was now in ruins, all his slaves and riches gone. He still had access to a few bank accounts here and there, but the vultures were circling. The noose was tightening. He really had nowhere left to go.

The one thing he had longed for over the past two decades was to see his Ana, even if only one more time. He'd had someone keeping tabs on her, and had even allowed himself to view a few photos that his investigator had taken.

After boarding school, she had gone on to Harvard to study law. Now a high-priced attorney, she took on as many _pro bono_ cases as she did ones where clients paid her millions to represent them. She was wealthy. She was beautiful. She was kind. She was everything that any father could ever want in a daughter.

Yet for all she knew, she was an orphan, whose parents had left a trust to pay for her boarding school, and both her four-year and law degrees, with plenty to spare to get her going in life. She went by the name Ana Sentoya, and seemed happy enough. Seemed to have retained the purity and innocence that were at the heart of him sending her away to begin with.

He made one last trip to the United States. He went to the skyscraper in Manhattan where her law offices were. She had six attorneys working for her, he noted on the sign outside the door on the thirty-seventh floor. He turned the knob and walked in to find a lavish lobby with a woman seated behind a tall desk.

A door across the lobby opened as the one he'd come through closed behind him. A woman dressed in a black, tailored suit, a pale pink silk shirt, and with her honey blonde hair pulled back into a French braid, emerged. She carried a micro laptop in one hand, and had a small purse slung over one shoulder.

"Oh, Lacey," she said, scooting up to the woman behind the desk, "I'm off to the Madigan case at Central now. I probably won't be home 'til around 6, so just flip to the service when you lock up tonight."

"Will do, Ana. Good luck!"

"Thanks!" she smiled brightly. "I might need it!"

His breath had hitched upon the mention of her name. She whirled and very nearly ran into him. Stopping short, she stared and stared with a little frown knitting her brow. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I didn't know you were there."

"Do not concern yourself," he managed to say, though his heart was racing and he was barely able to form a coherent thought. All he wanted to do was gather her into his arms one more time, but she didn't know him now. The advance would not be welcomed, and he would cause a scene, cause her to be upset. Above all else, this was something he would _not_ do.

"Huh," she said, studying his face. "Do I know you?"

He swallowed hard one…two…three times. Then he shook his head. "I do not believe we have met."

"Ana Sentoya," she said, sticking out her free hand and smiling broadly.

He hesitated, reached out and took it, his hand still so much larger than hers, as it had been twenty years before. His fingers closed around hers and he just held on.

Held on as the door behind him banged open, causing both Ana and Lacey to squeak in surprise.

Held on as a SWAT team entered, leveled their weapons at him and ordered him to step away from the women and put his hands up.

Ana stared wide-eyed at him, as he gazed upon her. With no time left, he did what perhaps he should have the night she was born.

"I'm sorry," he said.

She didn't understand why the SWAT team led the man away in titanium shackles. Nor why he'd shown up at her offices to begin with. "That was the Hood," a man had told her some hours later. "You had the Hood in your offices, Miss Sentoya. You're lucky to be alive."

That man, she found out the next day when word of the capture hit the airwaves, had been none other than Jeff Tracy.

The one thing that Ana would never be able to explain was why that scene haunted her for the rest of her life.


	33. Ways 65 and 66

**Way 65  
>Let your kids see you cry.<strong>

It was when Tin-Tin was but three years of age that Kyrano learned of her mother's death.

She had been gone from them for just over two years, but never gone from his heart.

He looked down at his feet, where Tin-Tin sat playing with a hand-made doll given to her by a nearby village leader. She smoothed its hair and smiled, babbling in their native Malay as she held a conversation of the utmost importance with little eight-inch-tall Aini, as she'd named her.

Kyrano took a deep, shuddering breath, crumpled the small piece of paper in his hand, and squeezed his fist so tightly his nails dug into the flesh of his palm. He felt his throat constrict as he pictured the beauty of Serena. Her long, brown hair, her emerald green eyes. Her fair skin and the shape of her mouth. The sound of her laughter, the low sultry tone of her voice when she was being playful, being _his_.

He squeezed his eyes closed and felt a tremor go through him as he fought to control himself. Tin-Tin had no memory of her mother at all, having been barely a year old when she left them behind to pursue Kyrano's own half-brother. She couldn't miss someone she'd never known. Not like Kyrano missed her each and every day.

With Serena's death, Kyrano knew their lives would change forever. His half-brother had been preoccupied these last years with the woman he'd stolen from his own flesh and blood, and had eased up on his pursuit of the Kyranos. But now he'd be right back after them, and with a vengeance.

He opened his eyes and forced his hand to unclench. The paper bearing the single sentence that was to change their lives forever fell to the floor like so much garbage as he touched the top of his daughter's head. She looked up at him, her smile turning instantly to a puckered frown.

"What's wrong?" she asked, rising to her feet and grasping his hands.

"Go to your room and pick your three favorite things to take with you, and get all your clothes out of your dresser, Tin-Tin." He couldn't keep his voice from wavering. "I'll be in with a suitcase."

"Where are we going?"

"I don't know," he replied honestly, then leaned forward and kissed her on the forehead. It was only as he drew away that he realized he was weeping, from the two wet spots left behind on her skin. He used his thumbs to wipe them away.

"Why are you crying, Father?" she whispered, lower lip trembling.

How could he tell her? How would he ever be able to make her understand that her own half-uncle had murdered her mother? "Just go and do as I say," he said firmly.

She rarely argued with her father, and most definitely not when tears were rolling down his face unbidden. Instantly saddened without understanding why, she nodded once, picked up Aini and headed to her bedroom, her father's hands falling away from her.

Kyrano swallowed hard, and wiped at his cheeks with the sleeves of his pale teal tunic. He took a few deep breaths, forced himself to get a grip on his emotions, and rose to his feet to begin packing his own things.

Serena was well and truly gone now. No chance of ever seeing her again, of ever reconciling. His heart a gaping wound forevermore, the only salve, the daughter she had left behind.

If he could keep her safe.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 66<br>Explore every park in your town.**

Jackson had a thing for parks.

Whenever Gordon or Elaine or any of the various and sundry other Tracys took him to anywhere other than Tracy Island, he always _always_ wanted to go to the park. With his big, round eyes and his dashing good looks (or so Elaine and Tin-Tin insisted, Gordon wasn't so sure) even at age four, Jack could pretty much get whatever he wanted with nothing more than a look.

And so when they went to Australia, he got to play at Sydney Park. Of course there was the children's playground, but there was also a bicycle path which he and Elaine had fun carting Jack along on one of those baby seats for bicycles.

Whenever Virgil went to Auckland to visit his girlfriend Maria, Jack would insist on Gordon co-piloting (and taking him along!) simply because he loved Western Springs Park. There were swans and eel and ducks and all the other birds Elaine insisted Jack learn the names of. He thought feeding the eels was the best thing in the world, and Elaine would always jokingly say he'd inherited his father's love for everything related to the water.

So when Gordon took his son to Valley Falls, Kansas for the very first time, to show him the old family farmhouse, to show him his childhood haunts and introduce him to some friends who still lived there, the first thing Jack wanted to know was, "Where's the park, Daddy?"

Elaine rolled her eyes and grinned. "I don't remember where the park is, Jackie," Gordon said, brow knitted.

"I can help with that, son," came a voice from the backseat. "Used to take you boys there every Sunday after church."

Gordon smiled. "That sounds familiar, I just don't know where it is."

"Valley Falls Park," Jeff supplied. "The playground's closest to Elm, if they've kept it up."

They drove along the narrow cobblestone street, Jackson squealing with delight when the huge children's play area came into view.

Later, when Elaine was pushing Jack on a swing and Gordon sat down in the one next to him to watch his wife and son, nobody said a word when Jeff came up behind him, grabbed hold of the swing's chains and pulled them back.

Gordon was surprised at first, and held on for dear life. But Jeff let him go gently and he swung forward. He gave him one more push, then said gruffly, "For old time's sake."

He smiled at his dad as he moved over to start pushing Jack instead. He remembered how much he and his brothers had enjoyed Scott and Virgil pushing them as high as they could go, and the times when Jeff could join them, and do the same.

And now his son was getting to experience it for himself.

Elaine reached out, took Gordon's hand and smiled. Somehow, she understood what the tiny little gesture had meant to her husband. And from the look on Jeff's face as he recreated it with his grandson, he did, too.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: I need to do another blanket reminder to my readers, and a thank you to Samantha Winchester for allowing me to use elements from her story "Secrets and Lies" such as Valley Falls, Kansas as the Tracys' hometown. Just want to make sure proper credit is given so all of you know where some of this stuff comes from!<em>

_Acknowledgment: A huge, big, gigantinormous THANK YOU also to Samantha Winchester for being my beta reader on every single solitary one of these Ways. It's a monumental effort to help me edit things down sometimes. I don't know how she finds the time, but she does, and I am forever grateful!_


	34. Ways 67 and 68

**Way 67  
>Once in a while, take a day off just because, and spend it with your family.<strong>

Jeff was drowning.

Not literally, though he might as well have been.

Laden with a laptop case filled to the brim with more paper than laptop, a box full of files carried in his hands, and yet another over-the-shoulder- briefcase that carried even _more_ papers, Jeff decided the first thing he was going to have his assistant do, was put everything into electronic form. Because paper files _sucked_.

He sighed as he approached the front door of his family's home. All the lights were out, his sons tucked away in their beds, no doubt. Once again, he'd missed another day with them. Once again, other people had been raising his and Lucy's children. Granted, his mother and his aunt and his two cousins were family, but still. They weren't him, and these were _his_ boys.

Getting everything into his study as quietly as he could, Jeff thumped down into the desk chair and leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, head held in his hands. He ran his fingers through dark brown hair that was slowly beginning to go salt-and-pepper on him.

"Dad."

Jeff looked up to find his eldest in nothing but his pajama bottoms, standing in the doorway. "Hi, son. I tried to be quiet, did I wake you?"

"Nah." Scott flashed him a grin. "You know me, if I sleep more than four hours a night it's because I'm sick."

Jeff chuckled. Like father, like son. "Anything happen today I need to know about?" he asked the thirteen year-old.

"Not really," Scott replied with a shake of his head as he sat down opposite his father in one of the two guest chairs. He sat and fiddled with a pen that he found lying on the desk for a moment, brow furrowed in thought.

"Penny for them," Jeff said.

Scott looked up at him. "Johnny and Gordon wanted to know if we can go to the zoo tomorrow."

"Tomorrow, what's so special about tomorrow?"

"They're having that big Family Gala thing where they'll have extra animals at the petting zoo, a mock planetarium, the aquarium exhibit, all the stuff those two love."

Jeff looked at the box of files on the desk to his left. He heard Scott sigh as his eyes traveled to the briefcase. Scott rose to his feet as Jeff's eyes landed on the laptop case, then looked up to meet his son's.

What Scott didn't say with his voice, he said in spades with his expressive eyes. Jeff always had been able to read people, and his sons were an open book to him, he knew them so well.

It took mere seconds for Jeff to make his decision. He rose to his feet, trying for stern but missing, he guessed, by about a mile. "I say we ought to try and get a few hours of sleep."

"Yeah?" Scott asked, raising one eyebrow.

"Yeah," Jeff replied, coming around the desk and placing his hand on Scott's shoulder. "I wouldn't want to go to sleep on my feet and fall into the shark tank, now, would I?"

A moment of confusion appeared fleetingly, then Scott's face broke out into a wide grin. "I don't know, Gordo might enjoy diving in there and rescuing you from them."

Jeff laughed quietly and squeezed Scott's shoulder as they exited the study. They made their way up the stairs, and Jeff stopped at his bedroom door as Scott kept going down the hall.

"Hey," Jeff called out in a whisper.

Scott stopped and turned.

"Thanks, son."

Scott nodded, smiled, and went on his way.

Tomorrow, Jeff Tracy was taking all his boys to the zoo, on his own, like the father he desperately wanted to be. The damn papers could wait. The damn people who _wanted_ them could wait. Work? _Work_ could wait.

Tomorrow was going to be for the ones who _really_ mattered.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 68 is pure crackfic but oh, so much fun!<em>

**Way 68  
>Find out about your family history and start sharing it with your kids.<strong>

Since Virgil was the only one affected, he was the one who had to tell any newcomers to the Tracy family.

It wasn't easy sitting down a lovely lady who happened to be in love with one of your brothers…or your father, for that matter…to look them in the eye and tell them something they would never believe until they saw it for themselves.

The first ones he'd had to divulge his secret to, were Kyrano and Tin-Tin. Kyrano's eyes had merely widened, Tin-Tin had proclaimed Virgil to be precisely three coconuts shy in the brain department, and so Virgil had had to…you know…_do_ it.

She believed him after that.

Brains had been told, had expounded to Jupiter and back about how such things were thought to be scientifically possible but that there'd never been verifiable proof that—

Just to shut him up, Virgil had gone ahead and…well…you know.

Brains was pissed off that he wasn't allowed to become the public _de facto_ expert on Virgil's kind.

Dammit.

Penelope had squeaked, though Virgil took pride in the fact that it hadn't been nearly as loud or as long a squeak…er…squeal…as the Mouse Aboard Thunderbird Two Incident some years earlier.

Along came Kaya, who took it in stride since she knew tales from her Native American grandfather of creatures such as Virgil. She did, however, ask him to refrain from doing…you know…in front of her if it could at all be helped. Well, to be fair, it _was_ a bit weird.

And then Ann and oh, Lord, well, Virgil knew _she_ could keep a secret after John confessed she'd known they were International Rescue for a decade and had never said a word, but it was…and Virgil just _hated_…yeah. He had to do it again.

Now, Elaine was actually the one of the newcomers to the family who didn't ask to be shown the whole…you know. Virgil was astonished, as his eyebrows hitting his hairline indicated, and Gordon's cheeky grin incensed him enough that he did it anyway.

"Cool!" was how Elaine responded. She invited him to do it as often as possible because she really liked hairy men.

Virgil teased Gordon about that to this day.

As each new child born to the family had reached an age where they could speak, and understand things well enough to know when _not_ to speak, the secret had been revealed to them. Virgil couldn't help but grin as he thought of D.J. and Melati and how they _loved_ it when Uncle Virgil did his 'magic,' as they called it.

Currently there were two kids too young to tell anything to, and one more woman he had to get it successfully by if he wanted any sort of future with her. He would have to explain that it was all because of a seven-greats grandfather, an ancestor of his dad's, and this weird DNA mutation combined with a serious of unfortunate events that led to it presenting in the next generation sometimes, but sometimes not.

Jeff hadn't gotten it.

Nor had Scott.

Nor John, Gordon or Alan.

Virgil? He'd gotten it.

Dammit.

Maria, she was a practical woman, a woman who shared Virgil's interest in engineering to the point where many of their dates wound up bringing forth brand-new solutions for problems others hadn't been able to solve. They had a blast.

(Though Virgil wants you to fully understand he knows how to have a damn good time without any other feat of engineering involved than the physics of the human body in a bed, so there you have it. He's such a hound.)

Ha.

Hound.

"Hound, she says," Virgil groused, folding his arms petulantly over his chest.

"Yes," Maria nodded with a wicked grin. "Virgil Tracy, you are a _hound_."

"Actually," he said, seeing his opening and figuring now was as good a time as any, "there's more truth to that than you might think."

She blinked. And then she double-blinked. "Say what?"

Right before her eyes, Virgil threw back his head, howled like your typical black-and-white movie wolfman, and started to change. Really, _really_ change.

When he was done, Maria stared at him for a bit. He began to pant, nerves getting the better of him. She didn't say a word or move, and he yipped in frustration.

She jumped.

Then she got a _huge_ smile on her face, clapped her hands together and said, "Oh, my _God_, you're so damn _adorable_!"

What? Don't look at Virgil like that.

It wasn't _his_ fault that his seven-greats grandfather had been bitten by a…Chihuahua.

Dammit.


	35. Ways 69 and 70

**Way 69  
>Give high fives for each tiny accomplishment they make.<strong>

It had started out as their silly little fun thing to do from the time Scott was about 18 months old.

No one could recall precisely the very first time the 'high five' had been the way Scott told his father he was okay.

He'd been young when it officially became a 'thing,' though. That was all they could remember. _Real_ young and _real_ scared.

At three years of age, he was about to become a big brother. "Only a couple more weeks, Scotty!" his mother had said.

He'd watched as his parents had prepared a bedroom for their new arrival. He'd listened as his father and mother had both explained what it meant to have a new baby around, and what it meant to Scott to become a big brother.

When his father had asked, after a conversation that – for a three-year old – had been a relatively long one, if he was okay with everything, Scott had thought for a few moments, and then given his dad a high five.

Jeff's answering smile and "That's my boy!" had made Scott beam.

One week later, little toddling Scott found himself in a pretty bad pickle.

They'd been to visit the Tracy farm, and while Grant and Jeff had gone to look at some problem or other with one of Grant's old tractors, Lucy and Ruth were in the kitchen whipping up homemade cinnamon rolls for tomorrow's breakfast. They knew their men _loved_ them, and Lucy's final week of pregnancy was making her hungrier for sweets than _ever_.

Scott hadn't been out of his mother's and grandmother's sight for more than three minutes when a sound that made the women's hair stand on end reached their ears. A sound like that of a wounded animal.

Two hours later, they found their little boy stuck down an old well pipe on the other side of the barn from where Grant and Jeff had been looking at the tractor.

Six hours later, the local rescue personnel hadn't been able to get him out.

Jeff was able to reach Scott's hand if he pushed his arm to the limit. He'd yell down, "Are you okay, Scott?" and then reach.

And Scott would give him a high five, unable to gather enough breath to speak.

Every fifteen minutes, Jeff hollered and reached.

Every fifteen minutes, Scott responded with his hand.

Ten hours.

Fifteen.

Twenty.

At twenty-one hours and fourteen minutes, the firemen finally pulled Scott from the well. They immediately laid him on a gurney, where paramedics began checking him out from head to toe. He was filthy. His right leg was fractured. He had a nasty gash on his head.

When Jeff and Lucy ran to him, the first thing Jeff said was, "Are you okay, Scott?"

When Scott lifted his hand weakly to give his father a high five, Lucy broke down in a mixture of laughter and tears. Jeff barely kept from doing so himself.

To this day, Jeff still asks the question, though mostly with his eyes rather than his voice.

And Scott answers, though mostly just with a raised hand than an actual high five.

But it works.

Because if Scott's hand doesn't go up, Jeff goes to talk to his son.

Just because you're thirty-five, doesn't mean you don't sometimes still need your dad.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 70<br>Get out of debt as quick as you can, and teach your kids about the value of being debt-free.**

That had been the whole point of leaving NASA to begin with after Lucy's death. The whole point of starting his own business, where he was in charge, in control, and could do as he saw fit to make money.

And, boy. Did he _ever_ make money.

Hand over fist.

Much to his own surprise.

The first of it had gone toward getting rid of every bit of debt the family had. Car payments, mortgages, credit cards. _Everything_.

The next bit had been funneled completely back into the business; to expand it, make it grow, make it thrive.

Then the money had _really_ started rolling in, and suddenly Jeff found himself having to make investments, having to decide what portion of it to spend on yet _another_ new venture, and what portion to save. College funds for the boys, help to his mother and the farm.

But there was a portion of that money that was earmarked for something very special indeed. His investment officer never asked what the fund was for, though he was curious as to why Jeff wanted to invest it only in certain types of stocks.

Turned out, Jeff had a damn fine instinct for that, too, once he'd learned the ropes.

That little portion of money grew and grew, both from the way it was being managed and from the chunks of money he'd add to it now and again.

And it grew.

And grew.

Until one day, he felt he had enough to really get serious about this International Rescue business.

He'd taught his sons to be responsible with their money as they each matured into men. He'd told them stories about lean days on the farm, or what it was like having three kids with another on the way, with their mother staying home…though he hadn't said much about Lucy herself in all that. He never did.

And he'd introduced each and every one of them to Henry Liddel of Liddel and Co. Money Management.

Henry was old now, but Jeff had always trusted him and _only_ him with this one particular, one very _special_ account. "An unsung hero," Jeff said of him as all five of his sons were shaking the elderly man's hand in succession.

He was going to die soon, he'd told Jeff on his last vidphone call. He had one of those forms of cancer they hadn't figured out a cure for yet, and his days were numbered. So the entire complement of male Tracys had traveled to Kansas to see him.

"Unsung hero, my hind foot," Henry rasped from his bed. "You made all the trade decisions, Jeff."

"Not true, my friend," Jeff said gently, taking the frail hand Henry offered him. "If you hadn't taught me what you knew, I never would've known _what_ to do with all that money. _You're_ the unsung hero."

Henry coughed, closed his eyes and squeezed Jeff's hand tightly. "Unsung hero of what? A multi-millionaire?" he asked with a small smile.

"No," Jeff whispered, crouching down so he could be more ear-level with his old friend. "Of International Rescue."

Henry's eyes flew open. He stared into Jeff's for a moment, then shook his head and smiled. "I should have known," he wheezed, struggling for every breath, "that it was you."

Jeff returned his smile. "Thank you, Henry." He glanced up at his sons, then back to his friend. "From all of us, and from all the people whose lives we've been able to save."

Henry died thirty minutes later, hand holding tightly to Jeff's, with a smile on his face.

International Rescue wouldn't have happened without Henry Liddel, who never knew each time a Thunderbird landed somewhere in the world, that he was a part of saving peoples' lives.

Jeff was _very_ glad they'd made it in time to let him know.


	36. Ways 71 and 72

**Way 71  
>Take a big leap when you see an opportunity, and show your children about trust, faith, and the virtue of following your dreams.<strong>

Brains hadn't grown up with parents. He hadn't had a normal childhood, done all the things kids normally do. Sleepovers, play dates, trips to the park. Enjoying recess at school, playing peewee baseball or flag football, or even kickball and Red Rover.

These things never bothered him, largely because they had always seemed irrelevant. From the time he became cognizant of himself as a person, when he was but eleven months of age, his mind had grown in leaps and bounds. It had kept right on growing throughout the years to the point where John had once jokingly called him a human computer.

And so perhaps he was, and fine with that thought in every way.

But the one thing coming to live on Tracy Island had given him a glimpse of that he'd never really been exposed to, let alone contemplated, was actual, regular, real family life. Sure, the Tracys were all grown men now, all with their own accomplishments. But these men, they were a real, honest-to-God _family_, and sometimes Brains, well…sometimes he just didn't know what to do with that.

Because it made him…feel. Not that he didn't have emotions normally, of course, after all he wasn't _really_ a computer. He supposed it was because it made him feel things he couldn't put name to besides extrapolating and logically determining what it might be that made the warmth fill his chest when Jeff hugged one of his sons after a harrowing rescue.

Or the strange sort of dizziness he experienced when one of them actually hugged _him_. Oh, yes, it had happened. When one of his gadgets or bits of technology wound up saving a life, he'd get a hug. He'd go stiff as a board, hope it would be over soon, smile and say "You're welcome," and move along, putting the moment behind him.

It just made him uncomfortable, is all, and because he found it wholly unnecessary to his being given where his mind usually was (between quantum physics and scientific leaps so complex most other people couldn't possibly grasp them), he tended to ignore rather than process and experience.

That was, until the day he happened to be in the tunnels far below the villa, headed for a storage room of equipment to fetch a new electric vacuum pump. He wondered if Mr. Tracy was going to raise an eyebrow that he'd gone through eight since their last run for supplies. He supposed it didn't matter as long as he was actually producing results. It's not like Jeff was stodgy, by any stretch of the imagination.

So along the hallway he walked until he realized he could hear voices coming from up ahead. He identified the first as Jeff, and then eventually the second as Scott. He kept going, caring little for what the men were doing down here. He had his goal and his mind had already gone twenty-two steps ahead to what he'd be doing with the new vacuum pump once he returned to his lab.

Then some words that were being said actually registered in his brain, making him stop dead in his tracks.

"You _can_ leave, you know. Nobody'll hold it against you."

Brains' eyes widened and he adjusted his blue-rimmed glasses.

"I mean it, son."

Jeff.

"I can't ask you to stop living because of me, or International Rescue or your brothers. Nobody can ask that of a man."

"Did I say I wanted to leave?"

"No. But you want a life with Kaya. A home of your own, a family. God knows I get it."

"I just don't understand why it has to be one or the other. Penny's already done a thorough check on her, Father, she's clean in every possible way. She can be trusted, I _know_ she can!"

"Scott, no. Nobody on the island. Nobody this close to our secret. You _know_ my stance on that."

"Well, maybe your stance needs to be rethought."

"I'm not going to argue this with you again. If you want to marry this girl, it means you're out of International Rescue. Period."

Brains had crept back a ways, around the curvature of the hall so he wouldn't be seen or heard. Speaking of being heard, _he_ couldn't believe what he was hearing. Scott wanted to get married, and his father was making him choose between that and International Rescue? He'd always known Jeff's position on new members, either to the organization or the family, but…it just seemed so…rigid.

"Dad, I love her. As much as you loved Mom? I love _her_."

"Then there's your answer."

"_No_!" Scott bellowed, making Brains jump, his heart racing. "I won't leave my brothers alone to do this. I'm responsible for them, Dad. International Rescue is my _life_, but it doesn't have to be all there _is_ to my life!"

"What do you want me to do, Scott? If you bring one home, then the next thing you know, another one of your brothers will want to, and before you know it we'll have an island full of women who could jeopardize everything we've worked so hard to achieve! How can you ask me to put your love life over thousands of men and women who have yet to be saved?"

"And how can _you_ ask _us_ to grow old alone just because _you've_ chosen to?" Scott retorted.

Brains gulped, certain that the next sound he heard was Jeff throwing a right hook at his eldest. He bit his lip, not sure whether to go on ahead to the storage room, which would take him past where Scott and Jeff were, or head back to his lab and wait for the storm to blow over before he stuck his head out again.

"Damn you, Father," he heard Scott say. "I'm _going_ to ask Kaya to marry me, and if she says yes, I'm going to tell her what I do for a living, and bring her back here and _show_ her, and you can't stop me. You can't stop us from _living_."

"Scott, listen—" Jeff growled.

"No. It's time for _you_ to listen, Dad. You're the one always telling kids at all these charity functions that they have to believe in themselves, follow their dreams. Grab at their one chance and take it, and ride that dream to the end of the rainbow. You told that group of third graders at the space museum those very words not two weeks ago. I was _there_, Father."

"Scott, I—"

"And yet when I have a chance to be loved by someone the way Mom loved you, when _I_ have a real shot at a family of my own, at sharing my life with someone, you tell me I can't. Not if I want to keep doing my job."

It was silent for a moment. Brains realized he wasn't breathing, and forced himself to take a few breaths as quietly as he could.

"I want you to have all that. I want you to have what your mother and I had, and more. So much more. But I can't…I'm just…"

"You're just what? Scared? Scared that we'll bring home the wrong woman, that we'll compromise the existence of this thing we've dedicated ourselves to? Do you think that little of our judgment, that we'd pick women who would _do_ that to us?"

"I trust your judgment, Scott. If I didn't, I never would've put you in charge of your brothers' lives."

"And what about _their_ judgment?"

"I trust _all_ of you."

Brains could imagine the two men glaring at each other in the short seconds of silence that ensued.

"Then trust me on Kaya. I would _never_ bring someone into our family who could hurt us. And if you ever want grandchildren, you're going to have to let this happen sooner or later." Scott paused. When his voice came again, it was softer. "You've met her, Dad. She's everything to me, I _need_ her. As much as I need International Rescue, need to always be the one to look out for my brothers, I need _her_."

Brains slunk away, fearing he'd overheard way too much already. This was just far too personal to be something he should've eavesdropped on, but for two weeks after he couldn't help but wonder what had become of the discussion. Jeff didn't act any differently, and neither did Scott.

It wasn't until precisely seventeen days post-argument that the woman Scott had been dating for the better part of thirteen months came to Tracy Island for the very first time.

When she and Brains were introduced, he was smitten by her loveliness, the strength in her handshake, and the way she and Scott looked at each other. It appeared this was an argument Scott Tracy had won. And it appeared the woman in question was worth whatever it had taken to do so.

And Brains realized in that moment, as perhaps Jeff himself had two weeks before, that sometimes you just had to trust others. Sometimes you just had to have faith in them. Sometimes you just had to let them follow their dreams, and let the chips fall where they may.

Since he'd never seen Scott so ridiculously happy before, he figured Jeff had made the right decision in the end. And began to wonder for the first time ever, if there was a dream like that somewhere deep inside himself that he needed to start listening to.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Oh, Lord, the Hood's hijacked me (sorry, he's...persuasive). Look out, more Hood-verse ahead. This is a timestamp for somewhere around Ways 51 and 52.<em>

**Way 72  
>Get down on their level and try to see things as they do. Chances are, you've forgotten what it's like.<strong>

He'd never before paid attention to children's development. It's not like he was into child-rearing on any level, to be sure. But there was only so much he could allow the slaves to do for his princess, and so he tried his best, inadequate though it made him feel most of the time.

At six months and one day of age, she was on her belly on a very expensive hand-woven area rug in his bedroom chamber, wiggling her arms and legs like she thought she was running a marathon. Then, after a while, she grew frustrated and started crying.

It was frustrating _him_, because he simply couldn't fathom what the problem was. And so he picked her up and held her and rubbed small circles into her little back. He walked the temple's grounds with her inside and out, up and down the stairs, until she settled, telling her stories of his conquests, of the grandeur surrounding her.

The next time she was on her belly, it happened again. It occurred to him that she might be trying to get around on her own, and he knew enough to understand she was probably attempting to crawl.

Crawl, like he made his slaves crawl before _him_.

No, that simply wouldn't do. No daughter of _his_ would crawl like a slave. Her first move would be to walk, and that would be that. Period.

Except she couldn't even stand up on her own.

The one time he tried to make her do so, a week after her first frustrating floor-swimming moment, he managed to get her propped up between his massive bed and a footstool he'd shoved over. She was holding on to the footstool palms-flat, grinning with her four front teeth showing.

"Ah!" she called out as he crossed the room to grab his cell phone. When she did, she let go of the footstool to clap her hands together. And completely lost her balance.

He'd just pivoted from picking the phone up off the dresser when he realized she was going _down_.

Before the Hood even knew what he was doing, the phone was dropped to the floor as he vaulted across the room and took a nosedive, skidding across the floor, bunching the area rug up beneath his bulk and stretching out his arms and hands as far in front of him as he could.

She giggled as she landed right in his two upturned palms, shoulder-first.

He was completely taken aback by how hard he was breathing. By how fast his heart was beating. By the actual…could it be?..._fear_ he'd felt watching her fall.

The Hood managed to set her back down onto the floor, her back resting against the footstool, and just laid there for a moment to catch his breath and wonder what the hell because, seriously? The Hood did not _ever_ feel things like this. Nothing affected him this way. _Nothing_.

Except for Ana.

He felt something on his hip, so he opened his eyes, craned his head up off the floor, and whispered, "_Gampang!_" in disbelief at what he saw.

Blue-eyed, blonde-haired six-month old Ana was three feet away from the footstool. On her own. And she was _standing_ next to him, steadying herself with her hands on his hip. He stared and stared as she smiled, and then began to laugh at the look he had on his face.

For the next two hours he stayed on the floor with her, marveling at the fact that he, Belah Gaat, was down on the floor on _purpose_, where before only slaves would ever find themselves within his temple walls.

And he decided that to see his daughter crawl for the very first time, and pull herself up to stand, then look to him for approval, well…maybe it was an occasion worthy of debasing himself this once.

For this one, small, solitary little human being…and for her alone.


	37. Ways 73 and 74

**Way 73  
>Learn some really corny kid jokes and use them often.<strong>

"What in the _world_?" Jeff wondered aloud as he stopped just inside the door leading from the garage to the laundry room.

There were gales…_gales_…of laughter coming from the direction of the living room. So Jeff simply _had_ to investigate.

He entered to find four-year old Gordon and three-year old Alan with red cheeks, tears streaming down their faces, clutching their stomachs and rolling around on the floor. Scott and Virgil were grinning ear-to-ear from next to each other on the couch, and John was tucked into an armchair with his nose buried in a book.

"What's this all about?" Jeff asked.

John looked up, rolled his eyes and went back to his book.

Virgil tried – pretty successfully – to look innocent. Not a bad poker face for an eight-year old, Jeff mused. Scott's grin just widened. "I taught them some jokes."

"Oh, Scott," Jeff said with a shake of his head.

"No, Dad, _clean_ jokes!" the eleven-year old said. "Honest!"

"Kids' jokes," Virgil clarified.

"Ah," Jeff said, not quite sure if he believed them. Well, it didn't matter now anyway, because it was time for him to haul out the dinner he was pretty sure his mother had left warming in the oven and get his kids fed, bathed and into bed.

He pretty much forgot about the jokes. Or so Scott thought.

_One week later…_

Scott walked through the garage and into the laundry room. He and his friends were hot and sweaty from shooting hoops on a summer afternoon, so he was after some bottles of water.

"What in the _world_?" he wondered aloud as he stopped and shut the door behind him.

He knew those laughs better than he knew his own. Wondering what had them going, he passed right by the refrigerator, but stopped when he heard his father's voice.

"When's a bus not a bus?"

"When?" Alan asked.

"When it turns into a street!"

Scott had to chuckle.

"What did the baby corn say to the mama corn?"

"_What_?" Gordon shrieked. Evidently they'd been at this for a _while_.

"Where's the pop corn?"

Alan howled, mostly because Gordon was, Scott guessed, as he stifled a snort.

"What do you call a fly with no wings?"

"_What_?"

"A walk!"

And that was _it_. Gordon was completely gone, and Al was right behind him.

Scott passed through the dining room and came to a stop in the doorway of the living room.

Jeff looked up and quickly tucked something into the couch cushions as he rose to his feet. "Done with your game, son?" he asked like there weren't two completely incapacitated toddlers on the floor at his feet.

"Yep, just going to take some water out to the guys."

"You do that."

Scott looked at his father quizzically.

"What?"

"Nothing," Scott replied. He looked at Gordon and Alan again, then turned and headed back to the kitchen and ultimately back outside.

_Five hours later…_

Scott crept down the stairs into the living room, and made a beeline for the couch. He stuck his hand between the couch cushions where he was certain he'd seen his father ditch whatever he'd had, but could find nothing. In frustration, he took the couch cushion completely off, but there wasn't anything other than a handful of old Cheerios, a couple of dimes and a whole lot of crumbs under there.

The living room light flicked on and he froze halfway to putting the cushion back.

"Lose something?" Jeff asked.

"Uh…yeah, thought I might've lost my pen here," Scott replied as he put the cushion all the way back.

Suddenly something was coming over top of his head and stopping right in front of his face. Scott blinked and looked at it. "Seriously?" he said, grabbing it from his father's hand. "Where'd you _get_ this?"

"Local library, you ought to try it some time."

"Daa_aa_d."

"You may want to have a look at it, Scott. From what Gordon tells me, my jokes were _way_ better than yours."

Jeff left his eldest sputtering in his wake as he flicked the light back off and went upstairs.

In his hands, Scott held a book entitled _101 Clean Jokes Your Kids Will Get_. A piece of paper fell out and fluttered to the floor. Scott stooped, picked it up and went to stand next to the window so he could read it in the moonlight that streamed through.

It read:

_To the son who's always been able to make me laugh. Thank you, Scott. Love, Dad._

_Nineteen years later…_

Scott lifted the last box of his belongings onto the couch in his sitting room, ripped the packing tape off and opened it up. It was full of books, old hard cover ones that for one reason or another he'd chosen to keep throughout the years.

One by one he placed them on the floor-to-ceiling shelves built into one wall of his sitting room, until he came to the last book. He picked it up, rubbed the cover with his thumb and smiled as he remembered that day so many years earlier when it had been given to him.

His suite door swished open and he turned to find his father entering the room. As he moved, something fell out of the book and fluttered to the floor without him seeing.

"How's the unpacking going?" Jeff asked.

"Great, this is the last of the boxes," Scott replied, jerking his thumb at the empty box on the couch.

"Oh," Jeff said softly, eyeing the book in Scott's hand. Then his eye caught something white on the hardwood floor. He bent down to retrieve it, saying "You dropped something," as he righted himself.

Then he actually looked at what he had in his hand. His eyes crinkled and came to rest on his boy's face, having to look up now to do it, unlike back then. "Oh," he repeated. He handed the paper to Scott and made for the door. As it swished open, he stopped with one hand on the jamb. "You still make me laugh," he said, hesitated for a moment, and then was gone.

Scott swallowed hard as he slid the paper back into the front cover of the joke book, and placed the book in its new home. Maybe tonight he'd haul it out and see if it could still make them all laugh like it always had when they were young.

Maybe.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 74<br>Hold a family meeting and get your kid's input on important decisions.**

All right, here it went…his very first family meeting as _head_ of the family in question.

Oh, boy.

He wasn't quite sure about this, because in spite of the fact that each Tracy man was indeed treated as the head of their own family, and then all together everyone just took their places as part of the family _en totale_, this was the first time he'd actually gone up to Tin-Tin and said, "We need to have a family meeting."

She'd gotten an awfully funny look on her face, then smiled and nodded and said she'd have Melati there whenever and wherever he chose.

Ha. Score one for men everywhere. Because if you can get Tin-Tin to agree to _anything_ without arguing about it or questioning it to death first, you are seriously The Man.

Or so he thought.

So when he walked into the 3rd floor conference room, expecting to see his beautiful pregnant wife and his lovely little daughter, he was…a little unprepared for what he actually _did_ see.

"SURPRISE!" yelled out the entire complement of Tracy Island.

"Surprise?" he blinked, and willed his heart to back down from his throat. "It's not my birthday."

"No," Tin-Tin said coyly, sashaying up to him as only she could. "But it's the very first time you ever called a family meeting of your own family, so…surprise!"

Alan's eyes widened. "You _told_ them? _Everyone_? Tin-Tin, that's…that's em_bar_rassing!" he hissed.

"What, them? Oh, no, they're not here because you called your first family meeting. I didn't tell them about that at all."

Now he was perplexed. Seriously, completely, totally perplexed. "Then wha—?"

"Congratulations, son," Jeff said, grinning from ear to ear as he stuck out his hand.

Alan took it, and he shook it, and his face puckered even further because what the actual _fuck_, anyway?

Sometime later, after every single person in the room, kids who could speak included, had shaken his hands or hugged him and said congratulations in just about every way known to man and finally left him and his little family alone, Alan took his pretty, pregnant, glowing wife out of Mellie's earshot and whispered, "If this isn't some 'you're all grown up now rite of passage' party because I called my first family meeting, then why the hell was everyone congratulating me like that?"

"Because, Alan," she said, smiling sweetly and giving him a peck on the cheek. "We're having twins!"

So he did what any man would do, under the circumstances. He fainted dead away.

Tin-Tin looked down at him with a _Yeah, that's how I figured you'd take it_ look on her face and whispered, "Surprise!"


	38. Ways 75 and 76

**Way 75  
>Don't just give your kids the answers to questions. Show them how to find the answers.<strong>

John was stressing _out_.

He kept it from his older brothers.

And he kept it from his younger ones.

But as Valentine's Day drew near, he was shit at keeping it from his father.

Finally he broke under interrogation, the kind where Jeff Tracy sits you down behind closed doors, looks you in the eye and says, "Spill."

John felt uncomfortably like a suspect in an interrogation room with the dogged gumshoe threatening to beat it out of him while a lone naked bulb hung overhead, blinding him with its old-fashioned white light.

Jesus, he really needed to stop reading through his grandmother's collection of old dime store detective novels.

"I don't know what to get," was John's first attempt.

Jeff wasn't satisfied.

"I don't know what to get…_her_," was his second attempt.

Jeff raised an eyebrow. In Dad-Speak, this meant, "Not enough, keep going."

Well, crap. Thirteen years old and going to meet his end in some dank back room at an old precinct the city'd forgotten about because he just couldn't spill his guts.

Yeah. _Seriously_ needed to stop reading 'Dick Dobbs Detective Weekly.' How Grandma had _ever_ talked him into that—

"Son."

Oh. Right. Still had Dad to deal with.

"I don't know what to get Chloe for Valentine's Day!" John blurted out.

Then turned beet red.

He was singin' like a bird. Some criminal _he'd_ make.

"Ah," was his father's wise and succinct response. Great. A lot of help _he_ was going to be.

John wanted to crawl under the bed. Or maybe out the window. Or maybe into the Black Hole of Calcutta where he could die a miserable death from suffocation, heat exhaustion or being crushed, as had supposedly happened to British prisoners of war after Fort William was taken by—

"John."

He looked up and met his dad's eyes.

"Why don't you just go with what you know best?"

And with that, Detective Dad, Gumshoe of the Tracy Family and a guy who _must_ have cameras stashed in every room in the house because otherwise, how the hell did he know all the stuff he knew about what happened there, anyway…was gone.

"Go with what I know best?" John repeated to the now-empty space surrounding him. "_That's_ what you're going with?"

Apparently, it was.

So John scooted up to his headboard, pulled his knees up to his chest, rested his chin on them, blew the errant lock of hair that insisted upon curling down over his forehead up and out of his eyes, and thought.

And thought.

And thought some more.

"Go with what I know best," he said aloud again, one hour and eleven minutes later.

He looked to the right, where a five-shelf bookcase was crammed with more books than any thirteen-year old boy had ever owned in the history of thirteen-year old boys.

And it hit him.

What did John know best?

Books.

Books, books, books and _more_ books.

He was up half the night, but at last he managed to find precisely what he'd been looking for, and put together enough pink and red construction paper to fashion decent gift wrap. He made a little card to go with the gift, taped it all up, and finally fell into bed around two in the morning.

So the next day at breakfast, his father said to him, "Find what you were after, son?"

Of course, none of the others had a clue, and John kind of liked that. Almost like he was the Confidential Informant, and his dad was his handler, and…oh, _God_, those detective stories.

"Yeah, I did."

The thanks went unsaid, but Jeff winked and grinned. He knew.

When, at lunch time that day, John left the cafeteria to find Chloe on the playground, he was stunned to see that not only had another boy – Zack Mansfield, to be precise – beaten him to giving Chloe a gift, but she was rewarding the eager redheaded kid with a kiss John didn't think he'd ever seen anywhere outside a movie screen.

Frustrated and exhausted from too little sleep, John whirled, tossed his construction paper-wrapped book into a nearby trash bin, and stomped off to feel sorry for himself behind a large oak tree at the far edge of the playground.

Some minutes later, a voice said, "Excuse me."

Fists jammed in his pockets, John looked around the edge of the tree to find…the most beautiful girl he'd ever laid eyes on.

Blonde hair hanging halfway down her back.

Dark eyes – hard to tell what color in the shade of the leaves above them.

"I…hi," the girl said. "You're…you're John Tracy, right?"

He stepped out from behind the tree, completely entranced, smitten, and every other word his normally thesaurus-like mind refused to conjure up at the moment. "Yeah," was the best he could do.

"Um," she said, shyly taking a step forward. "I think you maybe threw this out by accident," she continued, pulling something out from behind her back.

John looked down at what she held, and saw the paper-covered book he'd thrown away. It immediately made him scowl. The paper was ripped half away, revealing what it was, and just the _idea_ that he'd been stupid enough to—

"You know," the girl said, then stopped and bit her lip, looking down at the title of the book, exposed through the tear. "I think any girl would be happy to get a first edition of 'Jane Eyre."

He blinked, and looked up from the book to meet her eyes. "Really?" he blurted out, and felt his face grow hot.

"Yeah," she nodded. "Especially on Valentine's Day. She must be really special," the girl said, looking all around like she was trying to figure out who the intended recipient had been.

"To a lot of guys, as it turns out," John spat, and honest-to-God scuffed the toe of his shoe in the grass. _Oh, God, I am such a cliché,_ he thought ruefully.

The girl looked away. "You, uh…you're not really going to throw this out, are you?"

There was something about the look on her face…something that made him clamp his mouth shut so he wouldn't say the wrong thing. He was quiet for a moment, until she looked up and smiled at him.

"A first edition," she said. "I love this story, you know."

She loved the story.

And knew the value of a first edition.

"Then it's yours," he told her, "unless you've got someone else giving you something for Valentine's Day."

She smiled and it dazzled him. "Not 'til you. Thank you, John."

Holding his eyes for just a few seconds more, she then turned and walked away, hair flowing out behind her and sliding back down into place in slow-motion, like all those romantic scenes you read.

"Wait," he called out, and jogged forward until he was walking next to her. "I gave you a Valentine's Day gift and you're just going to walk away?"

"What'd you want for it," she asked, "a kiss? I only just met you!"

He blushed. "No," he replied, stopping her with a hand placed gently on her arm. "Just a name."

"Oh," she breathed, then smiled and held out her hand. He shook it as she said, "Ann Darning."

"John Tracy," he said automatically.

She extricated her hand and giggled. "I know." She walked a few steps away, then turned around so she was walking backwards. "See you around, John Tracy." Then she whipped back around and kept going.

He stood there like a goof and watched her until she'd made it all the way across the playground and into the school. "I hope so," he finally whispered, wondering if _this_ was what gob smacked felt like.

Because right now, it was the only thing that fit.

Ann. Her name was Ann…

* * *

><p><strong>Way 76<br>Remember, they're never too old for piggyback rides.**

The moving gantry had never malfunctioned before. So Jeff, Scott, Virgil and Brains were all on the case, with Tin-Tin keeping an eye on the experiment Brains had left in the lab to come help.

After all, if they got a rescue call, it'd take way too long for Scott to get into Thunderbird One's cockpit with the gantry unable to move.

So there they were at different points on the long, long ladder that led from the base of One's hangar clear up to the ceiling, all checking, double-checking and triple-checking each trip box along the entirety of the 150 feet of ladder in question.

Until Brains, nearest the top, thought he'd found the fault.

And, in turn, called Jeff via wristwatch to tell him.

Who, in turn, let Virgil know, who at last called Scott to tell _him_.

"Brains can fix it," Jeff told his sons as they got into a three-way call. "He's assured me your gantry will be working in thirty minutes flat, Scott."

"Great!" Scott replied enthusiastically. "Now how about that game of pool?"

"You're on, son. I still owe you for kicking my ass two weeks ago."

Virgil laughed and started his descent. Scott, nearest the hangar floor, was already unhooking the harness he wore – the same one each of them wore when working at heights like this.

Jeff was the next one up, and had only about thirty more feet to go before he reached bottom.

At seventy feet up, Virgil was going to take a bit longer.

Scott moved to the harness locker about twenty feet to the ladder's right, unlocked it with his thumbprint, and started carefully putting his equipment away.

Jeff kept moving down foot after foot, hand after hand. He looked up. Virgil was moving faster than Jeff, and Jeff had a moment to think, _Ah, youth_, and then chuckle to himself over how much he sounded like his dad once had.

Then there was a strong tug on the safety rope.

A strange clanking sound from above.

A jerk of the ladder.

A yelp.

It echoed off the hangar walls.

Jeff's head whipped up.

Scott stumbled back out of the harness holder and ran to the bottom of the ladder, eyes up the whole way.

Brains looked down. "_Virgil_!" he yelled.

Because Virgil was falling.

And his harness wasn't attached to the rope.

"_Virgil!_" Scott hollered, calculating all the angles, all the possibilities, doing what he usually reserved for doing only in the field, on a rescue. "Oh, my _God_," he breathed when he realized there was nothing he _could_ do.

Just like that, Virgil was even with his father. He reached out his left hand, eyes wide, face pale, jaw dropped.

Scared shitless.

Jeff already had his left arm hooked over the rung he was chest-level with. He reached out with his right arm and grabbed.

Virgil grabbed at the same time, but his hand slipped from what he'd tried for, which was Jeff's shoulder.

_No_, was the only thing Jeff had time to think, and he blindly clawed for something…_any_thing…

…and caught one of the back straps of Virgil's harness.

Virgil whirled and tried to wrap his legs and arm around both his dad and the ladder, but the weight of him wrenched his father's shoulder painfully. Jeff cried out as he heard his shoulder pop out of its socket, seeing nothing but blinding white dotted with explosions of color behind his eyelids.

His son's arms came around his neck, Virgil's entire body shaking, chest heaving, him panting as he tried to shove the panic away.

Scott was yelling from below.

Brains was yelling from above.

Jeff was about to pass out. "Hold…my _arm_," he ground out through clenched teeth.

Virgil clamped it tightly to his father's side, still trembling.

One by one, Jeff's feet found the next rung down. His hand and Virgil's hand were moving as if they belonged to the same owner, one at a time so they were always held fast to the ladder.

Down and down, Virgil clinging to his father's back.

Down.

Down.

Slowly.

Scott came up beneath them, but Virgil refused to let go of their dad. More like, he couldn't have made himself let go even if he'd wanted to.

When at last they reached the bottom, where Tin-Tin, Alan, Gordon, Kyrano and John had all gathered with hover stretchers and emergency medical kits, Virgil stood on his own two feet, but his left arm was still over his dad's shoulder, and his right was still holding his father's arm tightly to his side.

Jeff reached up and grabbed Virgil's hand. "You're okay, son," he whispered. "You're okay." He was shaking as badly as Virgil.

Virgil, who never could quite figure out how to thank his father for catching him. For keeping him from becoming a mess of blood and shattered bones on the concrete floor of the hangar. But every time one pair of eyes met the other, volumes were spoken.

And Jeff's shoulder, well, it was fixed, but it never was quite the same after the Ladder Incident. Small price to pay, he once told Penelope years later when it was acting up during a rainstorm, for your son's life.


	39. Ways 77 and 78

**Way 77  
>Have patience with your children. Don't expect them to be perfect.<strong>

You just want to reach out and put the block on top of the stack when you watch them concentrating so hard on such a simple task that it makes their eyes cross.

You just want to grab hold of their hand or hip to steady them when they take those first few steps, wobbly and wavery and falling down more than they're staying up.

You just want to put the peas on the spoon and guide the spoon to their mouth rather than watch them try and try and try, fail, then just grab the peas and pop them in their mouth with their fingers.

You just want to help. To make it easier. To ease their frustration. To make their life painless.

But it doesn't work that way.

Because you can't do anything when they're not near you. You can't protect them from life's frustrations, from its pain. From its ups and downs, its pitfalls and the cruelty it sometimes brings to you and those you love.

Jeff sits in the hospital waiting room, his head in his hands, four sons ages nine down to one gathered 'round.

He just wants to reach out and wipe Virgil's tears away, to keep him from feeling the pain that Jeff is still too numb to let sink in.

He just wants to hold Gordon, tell him to stop running around and playing like nothing at all's the matter. Like his mother hasn't just died.

He just wants to soothe Johnny's pale white self. Johnny, who knows something's wrong but since no one will tell him what, doesn't know whether to cry like his big brother or play with his younger one.

He just wants to lean on his eldest, to prop him up and be propped up in return, to look him in the eyes and see something other than a blank stare which tells him the nine-year old's developed a mask, a compartment for what he had to see, to endure, when he had to do what he did in the car.

He just wants to look at the new baby son they tell him he has, wants to go down to the nursery where they've got him under observation, just in case of trauma from the experience of his birth.

What Jeff _really_ wants, is to go back in time and keep any of this from ever having happened to begin with. So none of them have to lose the most precious woman in their lives. Ever.

But he can't.

No one can.

You have to let your children build their own towers of blocks, as you must let them build their own lives.

You have to let your children fall, just like you have to let them fail, so they'll learn how to succeed.

You have to let them do things their own way, even if it's at odds with the way _you_ think things should be done.

You have to endure heartbreak because there's nothing you can do to avoid it, no matter how much you try to protect yourself, or them.

Children are never perfect.

And in the year following his wife's death, Jeff proves the same is true of parents as he struggles to reconnect with his boys after running away in his grief.

Eventually, he comes back to them.

Eventually.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Way 78 is a companion piece to Way 71.<em>

**Way 78  
>Don't insist on conformity. Let your kids follow their dreams, not yours.<strong>

Scott's argument was sound. Jeff knew it as well as his eldest did.

But Scott was right. He _was_ scared. Scared _shit_less.

They'd worked _so hard_ together to build International Rescue. So _hard_ to keep its secrets, keep anyone from figuring out who they were.

But Scott was in love.

He knew John was, too.

And he suspected Gordon's trip to see Elaine at Christmas had yielded much more than just a simple reconnect for two old childhood friends.

Of course, there was Alan and Tin-Tin, but she was already part of IR and—

That's when it hit him.

Alan might have the chance for love, for family, because Tin-Tin was the focus of his amorous attentions. But there was only one Tin-Tin on the island, and five Tracy sons.

How was that in any way fair to whichever of the sons _didn't_ wind up with Tin-Tin? Or what if _none_ of them did?

Scott needed his Kaya. _Like you needed Lucy_, his mind supplied.

International Rescue needed Scott.

_Jeff_ needed Scott.

He'd wanted to keep his family close. Preserve them. Put them under a glass dome where they would be safe forever.

Which, now that he thought about it, was a little insane considering the way he'd done so was creating a rescue organization where they risked their necks on a daily basis.

He knew Scott wasn't going to back down.

_Would you have backed down if someone told you that you couldn't have Lucille and be an astronaut at the same time? That you'd have to choose one or the other?_

His shoulders slumped.

No. Of course he wouldn't have backed down.

He would've fought for both.

Just as his son was doing now.

Jeff took a deep breath.

He reached out and pressed a button on the vidphone.

He waited.

"Father?"

"Can you come to my study, Scott?"

Eyes met eyes. Scott nodded once, curtly, and cut the transmission.

Jeff leaned back in his chair. The whole world was about to change, and all he could do was hope that allowing his sons to follow their dreams, meant his could remain the living, breathing thing it had become. That bringing new people to Tracy Island wouldn't herald the end for them, but would be the beginning of something new that would still keep his family's secret safe.

Deep down inside, he could've sworn he heard his beloved wife whisper, "It will, Jeff. It will."


	40. Ways 79 and 80

**Way 79  
>Remember to let your children save face. Embarrassing them in front of their friends is not cool.<strong>

Jeff stood in the principal's office with two mothers of two other children. His face was grim as three kids were let into the office. "Everyone have a seat," the principal said.

Jeff chose to remain standing and motioned for the women to take the two chairs opposite the principal's desk. They did, but wouldn't look at him.

"Alan, Jay, Luke, which one of you would like to tell your parents why we're here?"

The boys remained mute.

Jeff glared at Alan when he looked up at him. Alan swallowed hard and raised his hand. He'd been taught a Tracy took his medicine like a man and never shirked from taking responsibility for his actions.

"Yes, Alan, go ahead," Principal Leeann Pickett said with a nod as she seated herself in her creaking chair.

Alan swallowed hard again. He suddenly looked so much younger than his ten years. With a glance at his father, he squared his shoulders and said, "We're here because we skipped gym."

"And would you care to tell everyone _why_ you skipped your gym class?" she prompted.

Alan looked at his father's stern face again. "I wanted to see the new combustion experiment in the junior high science lab," he replied.

"And your friends?" she asked, looking at Jay and Luke, who were doing their best to hide behind their seated mothers.

"I asked them to come with me."

Principal Pickett looked at him for a long moment. "What did you do once you snuck into the junior high science lab, Alan?"

Alan looked for all the world like he was about to chicken out and try to hide behind his father the way his friends were hiding behind their mothers, but he knew full well that if he even tried it, the wrath of his dad would be far worse than anything the principal would do to him for owning up to his actions.

"I turned the experiment on."

"What happened when you turned it on?" she prodded.

"It…" Alan bit his lip, looked at his father, and then back at the principal. "It blew up."

"Yes, causing a great deal of damage to a good quarter of the laboratory." Pickett sighed and leaned back in her chair. She looked at Jay's mother, then Luke's mother, and then at Jeff. "I'm afraid the school will be asking for the three of you to split the costs of repairs to the lab in question," she advised. The two mothers blanched. "As for the disposition of these three young men, I have little choice but to suspend them from school for a period of time. Their actions could have caused serious repercussions for the entire school, between injuries to students and teachers and further damage to the school itself."

"Understood," Jeff said with a curt nod. "For how long?"

"I think a month isn't too long a time given the serious nature of their actions," the principal said thoughtfully.

Jeff swore he heard all three boys gulp.

"I'm sorry," the mother of Luke, Mrs. Blankenship, spoke up, "but my son can't be suspended for a month, his father…" Her voice trailed off and Jeff's eyes narrowed, suspecting there'd be serious consequences for the boy's mother. It made his skin crawl to even get an inkling that Mr. Blankenship might be the type to get physical when angered.

Eyes wandering to his own son, he took in Alan's body language, the way his hands were stuffed into his pockets and the look on his face. He knew there was more to this, something Alan was holding back, and when those blue eyes met his, it confirmed his suspicions.

"I don't think it will be necessary to suspend all three boys," Jeff said.

"Mr. Tracy, I'm afraid that we don't have a choice. They all did this together, and must receive the same punishment," the principal countered.

Jeff glanced at Alan, who said in a small voice, "No, they didn't actually do anything but come along. _I'm_ the one who turned on the combustion experiment." Jeff's pride in his boy nearly burst through his chest when Alan added, "I'm the only one that deserves punishment."

The mothers looked at Alan in surprise, then at their own boys, who each nodded slowly.

"Is that true?" the principal asked Luke.

"Yes, ma'am," he nodded. "We wanted to see, but we didn't touch anything."

Jay's vigorous head-nod followed.

"Mr. Tracy, I trust you will deal appropriately with your son's behavior," Pickett said with a scowl, obviously unhappy about her original plans being waylaid.

"I trust you will deal with it here at school and allow me to handle my home in my own way," Jeff said, voice broaching no argument.

A silent staring match followed. The two mothers squirmed in their seats. Finally the principal looked away. "Mrs. Blankenship, Mrs. Zirkowski, your sons will stay one hour after school every day for the entirety of next week in detention for skipping their gym class. You may go."

The two boys and their mothers scurried out of the office like their tails were on fire. Jeff placed his hand on Alan's shoulder and went to guide him out of the office after them, but Pickett's voice stopped him.

"Mr. Tracy, your son could have caused severe injuries at this school today with that stunt he pulled."

"I'm well aware of the potential consequences and I'm sure that Alan is, too," Jeff said calmly. "I trust his school work will be made available to him online by the end of the day."

With that, he led his boy out of the office, out the front doors of the school, and to the waiting Mercedes-Benz parked out front in the Loading Zone. He guided Alan to the backseat, got into the driver's seat, and started the car. As he pulled away, his boy spoke.

"Thanks for not dressing me down in front of them, Dad," he said.

"Thank you for manning up and taking responsibility," Jeff replied, with a glance in the rearview mirror. He saw Alan's eyes filling with tears – the boy had always been quick to emotion, whether excitement, anger or sadness, and now was no different. "I know you were curious, son, but Mrs. Pickett was right. You could've hurt a lot of people today."

"I know," Al whispered as a tear rolled out of one eye. "I'm really sorry, Father."

"We'll deal with this at home. For right now, since you missed lunch, where do you want to go?"

Alan looked up in surprise. "You're taking me out to lunch?"

Jeff smirked as he looked at the rearview mirror again. "Consider it a last meal."

Alan bit his lip. "Sarkey's, I guess."

"Sarkey's it is, and then home." Jeff eyed his son again. "I'm really proud of you for taking responsibility, Alan."

He looked up, met his father's eyes in the mirror, and smiled. "Thanks, Dad."

Jeff was pretty sure Alan had learned his lesson. For his part, he was more happy that his son and his two friends hadn't been injured, than angry over what they'd done to begin with.

Either way, he would never have dressed Alan down in front of his friends or the adults or anyone else for that matter. He wasn't into embarrassing his boys, just making sure they grew up to be responsible men.

And it looked like Alan was well on his way to doing just that.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 80<br>Keep your relationship issues between you and your wife. Don't let your kids take on all your crap.**

"Scott?"

"Yeah, Virg, what's up?"

"How come Daddy's whistling? Daddy never whistles."

"I don't knowg. Why don't you ask him?"

"Okay. Daddy?"

"Yes, son, what can I do for you?"

"How come you're whistling? You never whistle."

"I do, you just don't usually hear me."

"Oh. So how come you're whistling where I can hear you?"

"I'm happy, son."

"Oh. Okay."

...

"Jeff?"

"Hi, baby."

"Jeff, _stop_ it, the _chil_dren!"

"They already know."

"They do? How?"

"I was whistling."

"You were...so?"

"Lucy, they _know_ I don't whistle. Virgil's barely five and even _he_ picked up on it."

"You know, we should be a little more discreet."

"Why?"

"Aa! Jeff, _stop_!"

"Dad!"

"Scott!"

"What are you doing to _Mom_?"

"Nothing, son. Just loving on her."

"Scotty, it's okay, your dad and I are just enjoying each other. Having fun like grownups do."

…

…

…

"Well, if _that's_ what grownups do to have fun, I don't _ever_ want a wife."

…

…

…

"Scotty?"

"Yeah, Virg."

"How come Mommy's and Daddy's faces are all red and they're crying but laughing really hard at the same time?"

"I have no idea, Virgil. I have _no_ idea."


	41. Ways 81 and 82

**Way 81  
>When your children were babies, you gushed over them. Do the same thing for them now.<strong>

The first everything seems like a miracle. As if you somehow can't fathom that you've had a hand in making this little tiny human being who's fully functional and does the same things anyone else does. Like you can't even comprehend that he's a human being at all until…he sneezes for the first time.

A sneeze. Something so inane, something people do millions of times a day, from the very young to the very old and all the world over.

And little baby Scott's very first sneeze came while in the arms of his father when he was but two hours old. Jeff stared in wonder as the eyes which had so far only opened the tiniest of slits, came wide open in the aftermath of the unexpected event. Watched as dark blue eyes that seemed filled with ancient wisdom looked squarely into his own, as a tiny mouth opened wide to yawn.

As the baby settled into the safety and security of his father's arms to sleep.

Jeff couldn't take his eyes from the little scrunched-up face, could hardly breathe over the idea that this, here, this was a brand-new _life_ completely and totally dependent on him the way nothing and no one in his world ever had been before.

A son.

His very own son.

"Jeff," his mother whispered as she came to stand beside them, "he's _beau_tiful."

"He is," Jeff said with a nod. "He's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

* * *

><p>"Dad! <em>Dad<em>, are you _in_ there? _Dad!_"

Jeff reached up and stuck his index finger through the tiny hole he'd managed to make, his only source of fresh air for the past sixteen hours. The only way anyone had been able to communicate with him in all that time since an earthquake had leveled the Mexico City hotel where he'd been attending an exposé of new propulsion systems with Brains.

Brains had already been rescued, and was fine, Virgil had reported two hours ago to his communicator. But Jeff was stuck under a piece of titanium the boys had to work _hard_ to get through.

Jeff knew he _had_ to have broken something after his legs went numb many hours before that. But he also knew his sons would get him out, and so he'd placed the call to John via his wristwatch, and then settled in to wait, with John checking on him every fifteen minutes like clockwork.

But John was so, so far away, and Jeff was trapped.

Until that call-out. That familiar voice.

"Dad! _Dad_, are you _in_ there? _Dad!_"

"_Scott!_" Jeff yelled best he could with his lungs full of dust. "I'm here! I'm _here_!"

And the sounds of machinery stopped.

"Hold on, Dad!"

And the sounds of breaking metal and concrete reached his ears.

"We're almost through!"

And the blinding light of the sun smacked him right in the eyes.

"Dad, talk to me!"

And he blinked. And blinked again.

"Dad? Say something."

And his vision finally cleared.

A smile graced his features in spite of his pain, his dehydration, his definite need to go to the bathroom and the difficulty he was having breathing.

"Scott," he rasped as his son scooted down into the small hole and held his father's head to his chest. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

His son huffed out a half-laugh, half-sob, then sneezed at the dust they'd kicked up digging through. Jeff was instantly transported back to that first day in the hospital, when little newborn Scott had sneezed for the very first time while in his arms. And to the words he'd said to his mother when he couldn't get enough of looking at that little tiny face.

The face of the man who now held _him_ in his arms.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 82<br>Don't gossip around your kids.**

"So then Lady Maxington comes up to me and very indelicately asks after Lil and Parker's affair, can you _imagine_, in a roomful of England's _highest_ society!"

Tin-Tin shook her head. "I must say, Penny, I don't envy you having to attend those events. I'm surprised Mr. Tracy has the stomach for them!"

"Oh, he doesn't, dear. He generally lands himself amongst the chauffeurs out-of-doors, if you can believe it."

Grinning, Tin-Tin nodded her head. "He always did say those who work for others sometimes have better ideas than their employers will _ever_ have."

"Oh, good, heavens," Penelope breathed, "I wonder if he thinks that of Parker!"

"I doubt it," Tin-Tin replied with a wink. "After all, it wasn't Parker he married!"

The women laughed, neither of them aware that little ears were listening.

_Some time later…_

"Mister Parker, sir?"

"Well, h'if it h'isn't the wee Master Drew Jefferson. Wot can h'I do for you, Master Drew?"

"Um…well, I have a question."

"Ol' Nosey'll do 'is level best to answer it, then, won't he?"

D.J., son of Scott Tracy and nearly five whole years of age, nodded.

"Well, out wif it, young one, wot's on your mind, then?"

"Mister Parker," D.J. asked, with saucer-shaped eyes that held all the seriousness he felt the moment required, "what's an affair?"

"H'an affair? Well, h'I guess that depends on wot sense you mean it in, now, doesn't it? 'Er ladyship attends affairs all the time, big fancy soirées, she does, in fancy dresses wif gen'lemen dressed like gen'lemen, make no mistake. An' the food and drink, coo! You've never seen the like. Why do you ask, then?"

D.J. looked thoughtfully at Parker as the man lifted the glass of water he'd been holding and began to drink.

"Well, Mister Parker, I just wonder, then, do you often have affairs like that with Lil? Because I think it'd be lots of fun!"

D.J. wound up with water sprayed all over him head to toe.

The leather sofa was never the same.

And Parker would never be sure his lungs had recovered from nearly choking to death.

He did, however, speak quietly to 'er Ladyship much later that evening about her chosen topics of conversation whilst in residence on Tracy H'Island. Er…Island.


	42. Ways 83 and 84

**Way 83  
>Stand up for the weak, the oppressed, the underdog.<strong>

He wasn't sure why the bastard wanted the child, and he didn't care. The little girl had been thrust into his arms upon International Rescue's arrival on-scene, and Scott had subsequently put him in charge of getting the children together as they were brought out of the museum, and keeping them safe.

And then _he_ had shown up.

John's instinct told him this was the guy who'd been after them for years. He figured he probably wasn't seeing the man's real face, but he'd heard his voice a couple of times in close encounters with him and it sounded like one and the same.

Even as fear wanted to grip his heart, he stood his ground with the little strawberry-blonde-haired girl held tightly to his chest. His brothers, all four of them, were inside the museum trying to find the last ten children. The first eight who'd been brought out, or had been lucky enough to escape on their own or with the help of their teachers, had been taken by the only other adult to survive – the museum's Head Curator – away from the area as fast as possible.

The land beneath the museum, and surrounding it for a six-block radius, was subsiding, much as it had that fateful day when the Empire State Building had nearly killed Ned Cook and his cameraman Joe. They were only ten blocks from that location now.

And John was standing face-to-mask with the Hood.

"Hand her over," he growled, voice so low it rumbled through John more fiercely than the shaking of the unsteady ground beneath his feet.

John didn't say a word, but took a couple of steps back toward the museum. He surreptitiously pressed the emergency button on his watch communicator, hidden beneath the fabric of the little girl's dress that was draped over his arm.

She stared at the man with wide eyes, whether in shock or simply scared out of her wits, he had no idea.

John figured either way, she had a right to be.

The Hood advanced upon them. "I know you have called your family," he said, hand outstretched toward the child. "If you give her to me, you will live to see them."

It wasn't often that International Rescue was confronted with people who wanted to hurt them while they were attending rescues. Usually the scene was so chaotic with frantic people trying to save lives that there was never a thought of 'bad guys' coming after anyone. Or sometimes the scene was completely deserted because everybody had been able to get out except for one or two people trapped somewhere only International Rescue and their equipment could go.

"Why are you here?" John asked, stalling for time. "Did you cause this disaster?"

The Hood simply quirked up an eyebrow and looked amused. "Give the child to me now, or die."

"I'd rather die than hand _anyone_ over to you," John spat. "Especially a child."

"As you wish. I hope you told your father you loved him before you left home, John Tracy." With that, the Hood whipped a laser pistol out from behind his back and took aim.

John turned away, folding his body around the little girl as he crouched down. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. The ground trembled beneath their feet. More asphalt fell into the underground cavern and river system below New York City. John very nearly toppled over from the sheer force of the subsidence, but managed to keep his footing.

The shot didn't come.

John chanced a look behind him, only to find the Hood was nowhere to be seen, a large, gaping hole where he'd once stood. Eyes wide, and unable to believe their luck, John just _stared_ at the nothing before him.

The little girl in his arms began crying softly as she clung to his neck.

Scott burst out of the museum with one child under each arm, followed by Gordon, also carrying two, and Virgil, with a severely injured girl cradled against his chest. Alan was next, carrying one small boy and holding the hand of another, while three more were following him as fast as their small legs could carry them.

John's eyes looked everywhere at once, but the Hood was nowhere to be seen.

"John!" Scott barked as he skidded to a halt next to his brother. "Report!"

"The Hood was here, he tried to take this girl from me."

"He _what_?" Scott asked, eyes wide. "What the—where is he now?"

"I don't know. I think he caused this subsidence, though."

"We've got to get these kids out of here," Scott said, looking around them quickly. "Guys, keep your eyes open, this ground's going to go but quick, and the Hood might be lurking."

"The _Hood_?" Alan repeated as John scooped up one of the three kids following his youngest brother.

"I've got the Transporter just the other side of the Life Trust building," John said. "The curator already got the rest of the kids out."

"F.A.B.," Scott replied. The four men took off, charges in tow, with Alan lingering at the rear of the pack due to the two remaining children who were on-foot and couldn't go nearly as fast as the men.

John hung back just as they neared the far corner of the Life Trust building, waiting for Alan and his children to catch up. That's when he heard a long, low laugh that sent a chill straight down his spine. "Hurry!" he called out to Alan.

The urgency in his voice caused Alan to crouch down and tell one of the two on-foot kids to get onto his back. John joined him and did the same with the final child. Burdened with three children each as they now were, both men knew they weren't running nearly fast enough to escape either of the two evils at hand: the deafening crack that told them the ground was about to split wide open, or the criminal who for some reason wanted the children.

"Just that one," the Hood said, stepping out in front of John, almost colliding with him. He pointed to the same child still in John's arms that he'd tried to get earlier. He looked like he'd taken a few good knocks and scrapes to the head, with several pieces of some sort of rubber-like mask hanging here and there off his face.

"Scott!" Alan called out as he ran with his kids around the corner of the building to their Transporter, a super-fast jet-powered bus-like vehicle. "Scott, _quick_!"

The little boy clinging to John's back dropped off and ran in the same direction Alan had gone. John held the final two girls tightly in his arms, glanced over his shoulder and saw a large and widening fracture heading from the front of the museum directly toward them.

He heard the Transporter's engines start. Good. His brothers were saving the majority of the children. Getting down on one knee, John put the two little girls on the ground. He pointed around the opposite way from where the Hood had stopped them, down the city block alongside the Life Trust building.

"Run that way," he told them.

The dark-haired girl obeyed. The other wouldn't let go of John's neck.

"You have to run with your friend!" John said, prying her arms away.

She began crying in earnest. John saw the Hood move closer, scooped the child up and turned to run after the dark-haired girl. His feet pounded the sidewalk, the sounds of the fissure growing nearer…nearer. Then he heard a shot, the unmistakable sound of a laser pistol firing.

He flattened himself up against the side of the building, the little girl trapped between his body and glass, and braced himself for impact.

There was none.

"John!" he heard Scott yell.

He turned to find his brother running toward them. The fault reached the center of the Life Trust building just as Scott also reached that area. He saw it coming and leapt into the air, clearing the widening fissure like a master hurdler at a track meet, and landed on the other side still running, scarcely missing a beat.

"Go, go, _go_!" Scott bellowed, pointing toward the corner around which the dark-haired girl had disappeared.

John turned and ran. He hadn't seen any sign of the Hood, but guessed Scott must have taken care of that courtesy the laser pistol blast he'd heard.

The Transporter was waiting, Virgil at the wheel, and Gordon and Alan trying to keep the frightened kids calm in the seats. John grabbed the dark-haired girl, who was still a good ten feet away from the bus, and leapt into its open door. Virgil started pulling away. Scott jumped into the open doorway and hung on, staring behind them as the crack in the earth suddenly branched off into two directions, one of which was following them.

And it was going a lot faster than they were.

"Step on it, Virg," Scott ground out through clenched teeth.

Virgil did, but the fissure followed them like it purposely wanted to swallow them into the maw opening wide beneath Manhattan.

John had placed his two kids into the first passenger seat and was now right next so Scott, hanging out the Transporter's door and watching as they tried to outrun Fate.

Just like they always did.

Scott radioed ahead about the branching-off of the subsidence. They heard vehicles and sirens in the distance as authorities fought to move people further away from the expanding danger zone.

Then word came from the Chief of Police that two men claiming they were affiliated with the arch-criminal known as the Hood were caught trying to get _into_ the dangerously subsiding area. They'd quickly confessed that the Hood had set the whole thing up with underground explosives in order to kidnap the group of school children visiting the museum so he could sell them on the black market, while at the same time trying to get his hands on one of the Thunderbirds.

According to one of the two men, though, the Hood had miscalculated the actual instability of the ground, and hadn't realized International Rescue was on the way home from a rescue they'd performed in northern Québec at the time the New York call came through. He was expecting to have his hands on the kids, send them on their way with the two thugs, and then wait for the Thunderbirds to arrive and go after one of them.

John and Scott stared at each other in a moment of disbelief when the chief was done with his incredible tale.

Virgil screeched around a corner, and the bus barreled over a curb right into Central Park. "Wait, _stop_!" Scott said as they reached the center of the park.

The Transporter skidded to a halt not a hundred yards from where both Thunderbirds 1 and 2 were parked on the far side of the wide-open space.

Scott stepped out of the bus and looked back toward the area where the museum had once been. John followed him, the little strawberry-blonde-haired girl zooming off the bus and leaping into his arms before anyone had even noticed her move.

"My God," Virgil said, as he came down and joined his brothers.

Soon Gordon and Alan and the rest of the children filed out and were standing and watching in utter disbelief as a twelve-square-block radius of New York City simply disappeared underground.

"What happened to the Hood?" John asked quietly.

"I grazed the side of his head," Scott replied quietly, so the children wouldn't hear. "He ran."

John nodded once. The fissure that had been following the bus stopped just before it reached the outer rim of Central Park. Buildings and cars, stoplights and concrete, asphalt and everything else that had once been above-ground, continued to fall. A cloud of dust and dirt billowed into the sky, obscuring the Sun as the final skyscraper, eighty floors of once-expensive office space, crumbled to its death into the caves and rivers below Manhattan.

"Jesus," Gordon breathed.

The remaining nine children had all grabbed the hands of the men who'd saved their lives. Two for Scott. Two for Virgil. Two for Gordon. Two for Alan. The last two grabbed the one hand of John's that he wasn't holding the little girl with.

"Why did that man want to take me?" she finally turned and asked, tear tracks lining her face through the dirt and filth that covered it.

"He was a very bad man," John replied. "But you're safe now. We're going to take you up in that, okay?" he said, pointing across the park to Thunderbird 2.

The girl nodded and rested her head on John's shoulder. "Thank you," she whispered.

John didn't know how old she was. They didn't really know how old _any_ of these kids were; there hadn't been time to get too many specifics once the curator had realized the kids were still inside the museum.

The rest of the rescued children all chorused, "Thank you," to the Men in Blue. All of them smiled down at their little faces, and then re-boarded the bus to take them the rest of the way to Thunderbird 2 where they would get their promised ride to the nearest hospital.

Sure, it'd be easier to just take them to the opposite end of the park, where they could find ground transportation to see them to an emergency room. But the guys figured each and every one of these children deserved a reward for being so brave, and to give them a great ending to a tale they were sure would make them the stars of their school for the foreseeable future.

Another job well-done. More lives saved. Helpless children not left to the hands of a man such as the Hood. They could return home with the surety and satisfaction that what they did for a living was the best job on Earth.

He could feel the jagged edges of concrete digging into the palms of his hands.

He cursed John Tracy and that little girl he'd simply _had_ to have for his slave trade, knowing she would bring an amazing price with that color of hair and those large, blue eyes.

He cursed International Rescue for showing up too fast, for thwarting his plans yet again.

He cursed Scott Tracy for the gash on the side of his head that would most likely leave a scar.

His right hand slipped.

The ground shook.

His heart stopped.

The concrete fell away.

Even as they were boarding Thunderbird 2 fifteen blocks away, the Tracys swore they heard a blood-curdling scream as the Hood met his fate.

But the children? The children were safe. And that was all that mattered.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Okay, because Way 83 was SO long (compared to most of my Ways), and because Way 84 was a joke inserted by the creator of this list I'm using, I'm making Way 84 REAL short. Actually, it's a picture I created to be funny, and I'm giving you the URL in the only way will allow it!<em>

**Way 84  
>Grow a beard. (Actually, I just put that in to see if you were paying attention.)<strong>

To see the photo that represents Way 84, go to http _colon forward-slash forward-slash _ _forward-slash _wsWJ8N


	43. Ways 85 and 86

**Way 85  
>Make something by hand with them. Don't worry about perfection, just enjoy the process.<strong>

Usually the long table in the dining room was reserved for meals. They tried, as much as they could in between rescues and having to be away for various business matters, conferences and the insane maintenance schedule for all their equipment, to keep mealtimes as regular as possible, with as many of the family gathered 'round as they could muster.

This particular Saturday afternoon, however, found the long, hand-hewn pine wood table strewn with every color of construction paper, glitter, colored pencils and markers known to man. And then some, thanks to Virgil's artistic proclivities.

And it was Virgil who, with his girlfriend Maria visiting from Auckland, New Zealand, was in charge of this particularly messy ("No, the glue doesn't go on the table, honey, just the construction paper.") International Rescue Top Secret operation.

(Though Virgil's the first to admit that in this case, he's not entirely sure how "Top Secret" the whole thing can be given the chatter, shrieking and laughter coming from the seven children executing said operation.)

It was nearing the 4th of July, and while the Tracys were sovereign on their island, bowing to no country and no particular government, the core members of the family, along with most of the men's wives, had been born in the U.S., and Tracy Corporation was, of course, based in the States, so they still celebrated American holidays alongside all the others that represented the birthrights of their ever-increasing number.

Instead of lighting up the skies of the South Pacific with fireworks this year, however, Uncle Virgil and Aunt Maria were to be married on the 4th of July in New Zealand, and the kids had insisted upon helping with the wedding decorations. So here the almost-newlyweds were with their nieces and nephews, doing their best to let the kids participate as they wished.

The reason they were trying to keep it a secret, was to surprise all the children's parents with the special creations which would become the centerpieces for each of the tables at the reception to be held at The Floating Pavilion in Auckland, the city where Maria was born and raised, and currently worked as a professor and engineering researcher at the University there.

Virgil knew how proud anything these kids did made his brothers and sisters-in-law, not to mention the grandparents and one great-grandmother all residing on Tracy Island, and Maria adored all the kids like they were her own. So here they were.

And oh, what a glorious mess everything was. Not just the table and the chairs surrounding it. Not just the floor and even the walls. Each and every child was covered in something, whether it was glue or glitter, marker or bits of paper.

Some of the older ones were doing quite well with the simplistic flower designs Virgil had drawn up for them, but the younger ones, well…they either hadn't inherited that latent artistic gene from the Tracy side of things or were simply too young to do much more than play and make a giant kerfuffle out of the whole thing.

But it didn't matter, because by the time Grandma, Kyrano, Tin-Tin and Gordon's wife Elaine showed up in the kitchen to start dinner for the entire gaggle of Tracys and Kyranos (both of which Brains was an adopted member of, sometimes to his great chagrin), Virgil, Maria and the children had succeeded in completing their arduous task. They'd even managed to get all the centerpieces transported safely to a storage unit down beneath the villa without so much as a speck of glitter falling off along the way.

The kids were excited, and even the youngest ones, Gordon and Elaine's son and the three boys they'd wound up adopting along with him, knew enough to keep the whole thing to themselves. They were bursting at the seams, but their only tells were giggles and whispers as they sat down to dinner that evening with their parents and everyone else.

Virgil's brothers knew something was up, but the twinkles in their eyes told him they wouldn't try to pry the secret out of their kids. For that, he was grateful.

And four weeks later, when Maria Woodward became Maria Tracy, and when the entire family and their closest friends, agents and confidantes gathered at The Floating Pavilion for the reception, the Tracy and Kyrano mothers and fathers and grandparents, along with everyone from Maria's side of the family, got to see the results of the kids' Top Secret efforts.

Virgil and Maria had been right. The parents were prouder than proud, and from all the squealing and shrieking and laughing and clapping, the kids themselves were proudest of all.

Aside from the fact that he was now married to the love of his life, nothing could have made Virgil happier.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 86<br>Once in a while, give them a "get out of jail free" card.**

_I will not yell at my boys, I will not yell at my boys, I will not—_

"Dad! Gordon broke my rocking horse!"

_-boys._

*sigh*

"Dad! Alan broke the crane I made out of the Erector set!"

_I will not yell. Will not yell. Will not yell._

"Dad, can you _please_ tell John he can't come with me to Andy's party, _please_?"

_It won't always be like this. It won't always be like this. It won't always be like—_

"Dad, Scott won't let me read the book he got for his birthday!"

_-this._

He wouldn't yell.

He wouldn't.

Jeff cleared his throat. He walked to the center of the sprawling ranch house on Long Point Road in Cape Canaveral, Florida, and hollered, "_Every single one of you into the living room _on the double_!_"

Oops. Oh, well.

"Now," he said, after the boys had thundered into the room with looks that ran the gamut from worried to annoyed to scared shitless, "I have had just about enough of this incessant tattling and complaining about what one or the other of you is doing to some other one of you. You are brothers, and you are not to touch any other of your brothers' things, but instead treat each other with respect and with the manners I've raised you to have. No more hollering through the house about who did what to whom. Do I make myself clear?"

Five heads bobbed up and down silently, suitably chastised.

"This time there will be no consequences. I'm giving you all a Get Out Of Jail Free card today. But next time, you won't be so lucky. Got it?"

They nodded again.

"All right, then. Dismissed," Jeff said, unable to completely rid himself of some habits he'd picked up in the Air Force.

"Scott, let me come with you!" Virgil yelled.

Jeff rolled his eyes and bellowed, "_I said no yelling_!"

Oops.

"Daddy?"

Jeff looked down to find six-year old Alan tugging at the cuff of his khaki shorts. "Yes, son?"

"You just yelled."

"I'm sorry, Alan, I know I did. I shouldn't have, and I apologize."

"It's okay, Daddy. You get a Get Out Of Jail Free card this time." With that, Alan raced out of the room, favorite old teddy bear in the crook of his arm, to find one of his brothers to pester.

Jeff chuckled. He supposed he'd earned that particular card in more ways than one.

And he resolved to be a little bit easier on his sons. If a six-year old could forgive him for breaking the rules he himself had set forth with such stern authority that promised punishment if broken, Jeff supposed he could forgive boys for being just that: boys.


	44. Ways 87 and 88

**Way 87  
>Tell your children how much they mean to you.<strong>

Usually, when people thought of children leaving the nest, they only ever associated parental sadness with the mother. In movies, on television shows and even in regular conversation you saw mothers cry when their sons and daughters graduated high school and left for college. You heard them talking amongst their friends and coworkers about how they were barely able to keep the tears at bay, how empty the house seemed even if there were other kids still living at home.

The thing you never really heard about, or saw, was how _fathers_ reacted to that same life-changing event. Why? Because men, in general, didn't talk about things like that, other than to say, "Yep, Scott left yesterday," or "Virgil's off to Colorado next week."

But just because they didn't get all weepy and blabber endlessly to their acquaintances about their feelings, didn't mean fathers didn't _feel_. How did Jeff know this? Because he's felt sadness _acutely_ as each of his boys have left home to start their own lives.

He supposes it's partially because they're all bits of Lucy, whom he still loves very deeply and figures he won't _ever_ stop loving. As each of the boys goes, a little more of Lucy goes, and that's a bitter pill to swallow.

Plus it's been just them for so long. Scott, who manned up at the tender age of nine and became a second father to the other four. Virgil's quiet strength and yet viciously playful side that always kept everyone on their toes. John's penchant for holing up in his room and reading or researching, or being up on the roof with his telescope, and the discoveries he would make and bring to his dad.

Gordon and his amazing swimming medals, not the least of which was Olympic gold, and his good-natured ribbing and teasing and talks with his dad about what he really wanted to do with his life. Alan, the youngest and by far the most spoiled and – if Jeff were to be honest – the most problematic of the five boys growing up. Trouble tended to follow Alan around like a magnet. Sometimes it made Jeff laugh, these things Al got himself into, more than it angered him.

The thing that anyone who's not a parent just doesn't _get_ is that you – in some cases – saw that child born. You held them when they were fresh out of the womb, completely helpless and dependent and breakable and innocent. You changed their diapers, you fed them, you nursed them through illnesses. You worried if they weren't eating right, if they got a diaper rash, if they fell down and bumped their head.

You held them through broken arms and disappointments. Through nightmares and failures. Through tumbles from two-wheel bicycles when they were first learning to ride and the horrors of losing the most important person in their young lives: their mother. At least, Jeff had.

And all the little things. Homework on a daily basis. Fights with friends. Trouble at school. Triumphs in sports and grades. Serious discussions about the birds and the bees, about money, about summer jobs, buying your first car, getting car insurance, keeping your vehicle repaired. Helping them through relationship disasters, navigating girls and friends. Stories about your own childhood, about your travels in space, about all the things that waited out in the world for them. The world was their oyster, you would tell them. Their dreams were there for the taking.

Even though Jeff's dreams, by and large, had completely shattered the night his beloved wife had died. He never had quite recovered, but the hustle and bustle of a house full of growing boys, combined with the insane work it took to build a brand-new business from scratch into something that would gross billions per year in the future, kept Jeff's head and heart busy enough that he didn't really think too much about how desperately lonely he was without his soulmate by his side.

And if he were to be completely honest about the sadness he felt every time another of his sons left home, he would have to admit it's because the less activity at home, the less there is to do, and the more time he has to think. The more time he has for his emotions to try and break through the layers of steel and concrete he's plastered over them in the years since Lucy's death. The more he has time to realize how badly he _still_ misses her, eighteen years later as Alan drives away to his future.

Leaving Jeff standing alone in the front door waving, then his hand dropping to his side, then staying there for another half-an-hour, unable to move.

The silence of the house is deafening.

His _thoughts_ are deafening.

He turns away, closes the front door, and stands in the middle of the living room like the landscape of it has suddenly become more foreign than that of Mars. He swallows hard.

They're all gone now.

He's truly alone.

A solitary tear rolls down his face.

Men don't cry, huh? They don't get sad every time a child goes out on their own, is that right? They don't miss them just as terribly as their mother would if she was here, you say? Well, Jeff thinks, bullshit on anyone who says so.

Of course, he'll never _tell_ anybody that. Because that's just not what men do.

But when men _do_ do…or at least what Jeff did every time he emailed back and forth with his grown, out-of-the-house sons…was tell them how proud he was of them. How much he loved them. How much each and every one of them meant to him, and always would.

Which was the biggest reason, many years later, all five of them agreed to come together again. Their purpose? To save lives. Their impetus?

Their father's love.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 88<br>Follow through on your promises to them.**

When Scott was fifteen, Jeff had promised he'd help him buy his first car as soon as he got his driver's permit at sixteen.

He had.

When Virgil was thirteen, Jeff had promised he'd intervene with his school art class instructor, who refused to pass Virgil because he wasn't painting the way she was telling the students to paint; he was painting rings around her and everyone else.

He had.

When Alan was three, and suitably upset after lightning had felled the huge tree in front of their home, frightening the living daylights out of him in the middle of the night, Jeff had promised him he would always keep Alan safe.

He had.

When John was seven, and going through a terrible ordeal with a heart condition no child should have to endure, Jeff had promised him he would live to grow into a healthy, strong man.

He had.

When Gordon was seventeen and having an uncharacteristic fit of nerves just days before his Olympic debut, Jeff had promised him that if he did his best – Olympics or no – Jeff would always be the proudest father he could be.

And he always had been.

But never had a promise meant more to him, than the one he'd just made to his eldest, lying in a hospital bed hanging onto life by a mere thread. In a single moment of lucidity, Scott had whispered, "If I die…" It had a taken a few more minutes for him to finish. "Don't stop IR," he'd finally said.

Jeff couldn't see himself or the other four boys going on in the rescue business without Scott. But if this was Scott's dying wish, it was a promise Jeff would make, and a promise he would do everything in his power to keep.

Just like when he'd promised Gordon he would walk again.

Just like when he'd promised Alan he and Grandma would make it off the bridge.

Just like when he'd promised Virgil he'd be okay after Two had crashed on the runway.

Just like when he'd promised John he'd see to it Scott _didn't_ die.

Jeff was a man who kept his promises, and these were _no_ exception.

So Gordon walked.

Alan made it through the bridge scare.

Virgil healed from Two's crash.

And Scott didn't die.

After that, Jeff promised himself and his boys silently, to never, ever see any of them die before he did.

And he didn't.


	45. Ways 89 and 90

_Author's Note: Way 89 is a crackfic-ish poem. (Insane. Unbelievable. Non-canon. Nuts. Silly. You name it. *grin*)_

**Way 89  
>Give your kids responsibilities.<strong>

The Tracys, each and every brother,  
>Lived their lives without their mother,<br>'Til one day a fairy came  
>Tho' she would never say her name.<p>

"Hark, boys," she said from in the air,  
>"Be not sad; do not despair,<br>For with my wand I bring a gift,  
>Your spirits, all, with which to life."<p>

And tho' they understood it not,  
>As wand was waved and they grew hot,<br>E'er after they were all endowed  
>With powers that would make them proud.<p>

Jeff, as father, given heart  
>To lead them, steady and stalwart.<br>Scott, as eldest, given strength  
>To lead, and go to any length.<p>

Virgil given gift of hands,  
>Stronger than most any man's.<br>John, the gift of tongue to talk  
>Any language, without fault.<p>

Gordon, like a fish was he  
>Fast and sleek he'd always be.<br>Alan, speed, no fear of height,  
>Giv'n from this fairy, small and bright.<p>

And so they grew, and hid their skill,  
>Strong of mind and strong of will,<br>Until the day came when they flew  
>The Thunderbirds, and dressed in blue.<p>

No one knows they aren't just men,  
>Who rescue all, time and again.<br>No one knows they have the power  
>To save a person, dog or flower.<p>

Magic brought down from their mother,  
>Making them all like no other.<br>Silently from far away,  
>Turning their night into day.<p>

She loves them so, and loves them still,  
>Takes pride in them and always will.<br>They'll never know these gifts were from  
>The one who left them far too young.<p>

The only price they had to pay,  
>For all the gifts they got that day,<br>Was using them to help all men  
>Throughout their lives, time and again.<p>

You cannot say if this is true,  
>Or just a tale I'm telling you.<br>But know that magic, true or no,  
>Keeps them alive, and this is so.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>Way 90<br>Speak to your children as your equals. Give them the respect you ask for.**

Jeff had never, as a father, been one to…well, to _coo_.

It amused him no end when Scott did, over his son.

Or when Virgil babbled baby talk to one of his little nephews or nieces.

It made him laugh out loud when John turned into a huge puddle of mush over his daughter.

And it was amusing to watch Gordon and Alan try to outdo each other with how much they could get their children to laugh by making ridiculous sounds that grew more and more infantile with each round of one-upmanship.

But Jeff, well, he was a farm-raised guy. His father, though loving, had been one of those role models that taught you the whole "men don't cry" and "men don't act like women" and all that man's man stuff a boy gets growing up.

He'd loved his own sons from before they were even born. He'd held them, hugged them, cuddled them, kissed them. Laughed with them, made silly faces at them to make _them_ laugh. He's always been there for them. He just had never been one to…well, to _coo_.

Until he'd met his first grandchild…which, of course, was why all the silly things his boys did with their kids didn't make him frown like it once might have.

Drew Jefferson Tracy, all seven pounds and nine ounces of him, firstborn son to Scott, was in his grandfather's arms when he opened his eyes for the first time, just as his father had so many, many years before.

He'd looked up at his grandfather, whose face had a smile the size of Tracy Island plastered on it, and communicated for the very first time.

"Coo," his little tiny voice had said, so much like the sound of a dove that Jeff was instantly mesmerized.

And so, forgetting that he was Jeff Tracy, son of Grant Tracy…forgetting he was a former Air Force Colonel and former astronaut...forgetting he was the head of a multi-national billion-dollar company...forgetting he was the father of five grown men _and_ International Rescue, Jeff did something he'd never done before.

"Coo," he said back to this little baby boy in his arms.

It was only when he felt Scott's hand between his shoulder blades that he realized how foolish he must've sounded and felt his face grow hot as a blush crept up his neck. He looked up into Scott's eyes, though, and didn't see anything like mockery or that his eldest was on the verge of laughing his ass off at his father, both of which Jeff had expected.

No.

He saw joy. Pure, unadulterated joy.

He saw pride.

He saw…himself, when he had first held Scott.

"Coo," little Drew repeated.

"Coo," Jeff replied, looking back down at the boy.

Scott's grin went from ear to ear. "Coo," he confirmed with a nod.

Now Jeff coos…and makes more silly noises and faces…than _any_ of his boys. Funny thing is, none of them seems to respect Silly Jeff any less than they did Serious Jeff.

In fact, they might even respect him _more_.


	46. Ways 91 and 92

**Way 91  
>Plan surprises for them and keep them guessing.<strong>

He'd been…well, not around much over the past sixteen months. She'd been gone that long, and sure, he lived in the same house they did, and participated where he could when he was home.

Which, he admits to himself, wasn't often in that span of time.

So he knows he needs to reconnect with his sons, and now that he's finally got office space rented for the brand-new Tracy Aerospace, figures maybe he'll take them all with him Monday morning and show it to them. "This is what your old dad's been up to," he'll tell them, although at ten years old, Scott's probably the only one who'll even show a tiny modicum of interest in the proceedings.

Nevertheless, Sunday night he tells them that's where they're all going bright and early the next day. Alan's doesn't get it, Gordon's sort of on the fence about what it even means. At five, all John knows is that he's going to get to spend the day with Daddy. At seven, Virgil's thinking he'd like to see some cool machines, even though Jeff patiently explains he doesn't _have_ any cool machines at this particular office.

Scott calls it a field trip and gets the youngest three into the tub for a bath. John protests he's too old for communal baths, while Gordon and Alan make short work of dousing the entire bathroom (and Scott) with water, bubbles and shampoo. Eventually, everyone gets to bed.

And Scott stays awake all night.

Because it's weird, their father suddenly taking them to work. Weird since he's been parent-in-absentia for over a year. Scott's worried how his brothers will behave; whether that behavior will reflect badly on the job he's been doing teaching them right from wrong in all that time, looking after them, looking _out_ for them.

Not that he's been alone, of course not. No one would expect a nine and then ten-year old boy to raise four kids himself. His grandparents have been around, aunts and uncles, cousins, great-aunts and great-uncles, the list goes on. And of course, there's been school, and now that it's summer there's sports, so Scott's not even home all the time. But when he is, he's on point all hours of the day and night.

Because Scott, see, he takes the weight of the world onto his smallish shoulders and feels responsible for everything, whether he actually is or not. It's a switch that got flipped the night his mother died, and it's something he welcomes and does well with. Except nights like this, when it keeps him awake.

He wants to impress the man called Jefferson Grant Tracy. He wants him to think he's been doing right by the boys, that he's a responsible young man, that he can be trusted. That he's worthy of being the former astronaut's oldest son.

So he lays awake. And he worries. He can't help it.

* * *

><p>The next day dawns bright and sunny, and Scott's been up since before that sun even whispered hello. He's got clothes for all five of them laid out, and he gets the little ones downstairs and then manages to get Virgil upright and into the shower, though he can't be sure Virgil's actually awake or even moving, let alone cleaning himself up. Scott's sure by the time the youngest three are fed their breakfasts, he'll find Virg still standing in the tub, eyes closed, shampoo dripping down from his hair, and he'll climb into the shower and proceed to wake his brother up with a hair-washing that more resembles a noogie than anything else, and they'll both wind up showered and mostly none the worse for wear.<p>

Of course, he's right. After all, he's been at it long enough to know. He wonders if his father knows any of that, then banishes those thoughts immediately. Dad's been busy. He's had to make sure his family's going to be able to afford their house, food on their plates, clothes for themselves, school supplies, toys. That's why Scott's got to do his part to make sure their father doesn't have to worry about them while he's trying to make ends meet.

Which is, of course, why he hasn't slept a wink.

So they eat, they dress, and by eight-thirty a.m. they're all in the huge SUV that's the only vehicle they own capable of holding all the Tracy men – and boys – at once.

Jeff drives them through Valley Falls, and Scott is vaguely aware of his father having told them the office is in a newer building on the outskirts of town. But he's more than a little surprised when the car keeps going on Phoebe Street and then turns left onto Sycamore. The Tree Park is the only thing that's even close, and the baseball diamonds left and right of Sycamore that Scott's played plenty of baseball games at. The library's a little further along and to the left on 5th, and Virgil's favorite pizza place, Simple Simon's, is further still along Sycamore, across the street from the post office.

But Scott's not aware of having seen any new buildings although he admits that as a ten-year old, his drives around town are limited to whatever adult is taking him and his brothers to wherever they need to be for whatever they need to be there for. The school's only a handful of blocks to the left, now, when suddenly from behind him in the seat next to the window, little Johnny squeals so loud it makes Alan start crying.

Scott stops his daydreaming, looks out the front window, and sees what it is that's got John going off the rails.

It's a carnival. A traveling carnival has set up on the baseball diamond and now his father's turning right onto Maple Street where Scott realizes cars are lining both sides of the road. Gordon's oohing and aahing, John's babbling about all the colors and lights and moving rides. Virgil, when Scott chances a look behind the driver's seat to where he's sitting, is looking at Scott with a big smile on his face.

"What do you say, boys?" Jeff asks as he slides into a parallel spot just vacated by a pickup truck. "How about a day of fun, just us men-folk?"

"You mean it, Dad?" Scott asks before his brain-to-mouth filter has a chance to kick in. He feels color creep up his cheeks and looks out the window because to question Father—

Jeff's hand comes to rest on Scott's left leg, and Scott chances a look at him to find him smiling softly, kindly, _lovingly_ back at him. "Yes, I mean it. And what I mean _by_ it, is I want you to go and have fun, son. I'll look after the young ones."

Virgil's face appears between the two front bucket seats even as John and Gordon are trying desperately to unfasten the buckles of their booster seat and car seat, respectively. Alan's still sniffling.

"I'd really like a go at that roller coaster," Virgil's quiet, steady voice says.

"Then you and Scott have at it," Jeff says with a pat to Scott's leg. He reaches into his back pocket, pulls out his wallet and hands each of his sons a ten dollar bill. "You run out, you text me and tell me where to find you. Okay?"

Scott's eyes are wide. Have…fun? Not…take care of his brothers? Really?

Jeff jerks his head toward the rear of the SUV, which Virgil takes as his cue to unfasten Alan back in the third row of seats. When he's out of earshot, Jeff leans over so he's close to his eldest's ear and whispers, "You've done enough. More than I ever could have asked, and better than anyone else ever could've. It's time I step up."

Then he leans back, looking at Scott expectantly. Scott smiles, then it widens into a full-blown grin. His father's just given him the greatest compliment he could ever have hoped for, and suddenly the weight of the world that's been resting on his shoulders seems so, _so_ much lighter.

"Yeah, Dad," he says, pocketing the ten. "But I'd better open that dual stroller for you, it's tricky."

Jeff chuckles. "I'd appreciate it; otherwise your brothers may never _get_ to the fair."

Scott laughs and vaults out of the passenger seat to get the stroller out of the back of the SUV. He doesn't have to worry anymore, because he's done right by his brothers. He's done right by his father. And even though he's only ten, he knows full well that somehow, for some reason, he just got his father back.

That night, after an afternoon and evening filled with cotton candy, popcorn, hot dogs, pizza, too many stomach-flipping rides and shoot-'em-up games to count, and more laughter than he's seen in the last sixteen months combined, young Scott Tracy sleeps like a log.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: For Way 92, the original character (OC) Jenny North first made her appearance in my story "Projected Losses" housed on the Tracy Island Chronicles, so if you'd like to understand who she is, what she does and how she's connected to the Tracy family and business, you may want to read that story – and its companion piece "Tidings of Comfort and Joy" also housed on the TIC – first. (Otherwise this will make NO sense.)<em>

**Way 92  
>When speaking to other adults, act as if your kids were listening.<strong>

Jeff loved her to death. To pieces. Beyond reason. Spent half his time on Tracy Island and the other half at her charming little house in Kansas just because sometimes it felt damn good to get back to your small-town roots. And, of course, because her hot chocolate was to die for and there were no grown sons around to give you those damn looks, like they've never walked out of their rooms rumpled before. Hmph.

But...she also was the one person outside maybe Scott, who could get his blood boiling like nobody's business in about two seconds flat.

This was one such moment. He was pretty sure his blood pressure was skyrocketing, but she was _wrong_, and he was _right_, and there was no two ways about it no matter _how_ much proof she said she had!

"Dammit, Jenny, there is no _way_ that anyone's been embezzling from the LRSE and Moon Colony projects!"

Funny thing about Jenny that was different from the way Lucy and he used to fight, though, was that Jenny didn't lose her temper right back at him like Luce always had. Jenny had been in too many board rooms for that sort of knee-jerk reaction. She tried to stay calm and rational when he blew a gasket, which only served to infuriate him more. (And led to fantastic make-up sex – he'd been lucky enough in life to have been blessed with two women for whom that worked spectacularly for all concerned.)

But here and now in the office, as always, they were professionals and they acted like it. Well, sort of.

"Jeff, if you would just take a look at these financials, and the trail of status reports combined with the baselined columns in the project schedules going back to a month after I left—"

"What are you trying to say, that because _you_ weren't managing the project, someone was able to _steal_ from me?"

"One: us. Steal from _us_. I get a paycheck from here, too, you know. So do your sons and half their wives and girlfriends. Two:" and yes, she was ticking her points off on her fingers, "I have hard evidence that the project manager who took over after I had to change my identity and leave the freaking _state_ has been falsifying the status reports and the project schedule, right here on this micro-comp, and _three_," oh, boy, he didn't know whether to walk out on her or kiss the living _shit_ out of her, "John has already figured out who was in on it with Garrett Parsons, _and_—" she held up a hand to shut him up just as he opened his mouth to speak, "he's got the three evildoers in the main conference room right now with your Chief of Security on the off chance that you _might_ want to question them before he calls the cops!"

Well.

_I guess she told _me_ now, didn't she._

Jeff remembered the lesson well that his mother had drilled into his head from the time he was old enough to string a sentence together. "If you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all."

So he kept his mouth shut, because she was…and it was…and God, right _there_ in front of all those employees, challenging him, and what had he told her about that, anyway, damn it all to hell, except…she was being nice about it. Professional.

More or less.

If all this was true, if Tracy Corporation _had_ been hit by embezzlers during the time when he and his sons had been too busy to mind the store closely enough and in the aftermath of rooting out the Hood's corporate spies, and of getting Jenny back to being Jenny instead of…whatever the hell name she'd gone by there on Long Island while hiding out, well…at the very least, rather than taking offense at the mere suggestion that he'd let things go that much, he ought to listen to her and fix the blasted problem.

_John_ apparently had listened to her, which should tell him something since it was John being groomed to take the company over once Jeff retired from it.

Jenny looked at him and held out the micro-comp in the palm of her hand. She quirked an eyebrow. He cleared his throat as he took the comp from her. "Yes, I suppose that would probably be the best course of action, thank you."

As he made to leave the room, she shot him a smoldering look, which he returned ten-fold.

Oh, hell, yeah, he was seriously going to be a happy man tonight. And he'd managed not to lose his temper so much that he said something that'd make her want to pummel him more than ride him, so aside from the fact that he now had to face the horrible truth that certain people within his organization had taken advantage of the various calamities his family had been experiencing over the past couple of years, he counted the whole thing as a win.

Later than night…roughly around two a.m. as he fell asleep, exhausted…he was considering it a _huge_ win indeed. Bad guys arrested and facing multiple charges; the LRSE and Moon Colony projects back on track; and Jenny at the helm of the project that was going to take Tracy Corporation so far ahead of its competitors they wouldn't even be able to see the dust.

And the woman he'd inexplicably fallen in love with in spite of the shitstorm that had rained down on them in the process was in his arms. Always pushing him, always questioning, always driving him to the brink of insanity and yanking him back just shy of going off the cliff. But that's what made her a kick-ass project manager, and it's also what made her a kick-ass wife for a man who admitted – at least to himself – that he was a little hard to handle at times.

Wait. Did he just think…_wife_?

His eyes popped open. He turned his head to find her sound asleep on her side of the bed, back to him, none the wiser that she'd just been promoted from Girlfriend, right past Fiancée and into…

…Wife?

Oh, God. He had it _bad_. Which meant he was going to have to propose at some point here, wasn't he?

He wondered if post-proposal sex was anywhere near as good as make-up sex, and resolved to find out sooner rather than later.

And hope she didn't project manage him to death about it afterwards. Although he wouldn't mind a bit of a heated argument just for the hell of it…

_There is something seriously wrong with you, Tracy_, he said to himself as he climbed back into bed, scooted across and spooned in behind her.

_Yeah,_ his inner voice replied. _You're in love._


	47. Ways 93 and 94

_Author's Note: The Hood wouldn't allow me to finish these 100 ways without one more from his Hood-verse, so my apologies in advance because he's a bit…well, he's the Hood. And that's all I have to say about that._

**Way 93  
>Play games with your children. Let them win sometimes, but don't make it obvious or easy.<strong>

She was only six years old, but she was old enough to start learning, in his opinion. And so came the night when, on the top-most floor of the temple with the retractable roof open just enough to let moonlight stream through and the abyss to the center of Hell quietly spewing sulfur into the air, the Hood decided to teach his daughter how to hunt.

He would never liken it to such a thing, but the process he intended to use was very similar to how a predatory wild animal teaches its own young. The mother maims the intended meal, leaving it in such a state that it's not likely to be able to escape, but will still put up enough of a fight that its cubs learn what works and what doesn't, to kill. To survive.

Now, in the Hood's world, things were similar in that if you didn't learn to ward off lesser demons and other elementals, you could be in for some trouble. And while the Hood's own demon princess – with whom he joined regularly, allowing her to possess and use him as she saw fit – protected him from actually being harmed by another of her realm, the same was not true for Ana.

In fact, his demon was jealous as hell of the blonde-haired little beauty; a fact which secretly filled him with glee.

The Hood had his own familiars and elementals over which he kept a modicum of control. By and large they could do as they wished, so long as they came when he summoned them. One such elemental was a leather-skinned brown imp with large red-gold eyes named Ibi. He had bat-like wings, and looked pretty much the same as most imps the Hood had ever come across. A fugitive from far-away Iberia, the Hood had found him quite by accident during a trip to northern Spain to obtain a priceless work of art (not legitimately, of course) and the elemental had happily followed him home.

Happily, until now.

Because Ibi was – as are all imps – a mischievous little thing who stood no more than a foot-and-a-half tall at most, he'd angered the Hood enough times that it was he the hardened bastard would be using to teach Ana how to fend for herself among lesser demons such as him.

He cowered near the abyss. Lord knew he'd been hung over it enough times to be frightened for his life. But the Hood had put an immobility spell on him and the most he could do was shift his head around, move his eyes and flex his tiny, bony little fingers and toes.

When he saw the little girl, his large eyes widened. He had never before been allowed near her in the two years he'd been owned by the Hood, and found he couldn't take his eyes off her. So when the Hood removed the immobility spell, Ibi didn't move. And when the Hood showed his daughter a very simple spell for tossing the imp across the room, which hurt one of his thin little wings, he merely whimpered, rather than try to run away.

Because there was something about her that he liked (and he apparently he had the self-preservation instincts of a lemming), so all he did was get back up on his feet and continue staring at the little girl.

The little girl who, when she saw the blood seeping from his right wing, began to cry.

The Hood picked up his child with a tenderness Ibi had never seen him exhibit with any other object or living creature, and left the little guy there near the abyss that – if Ibi really wanted to – he could jump into, thus burning to a cinder in half a second and putting himself out of his misery.

But he wanted to know the child. And so he followed at a safe distance, ignoring the pain of his broken wing. At last, an hour later, the girl had been put to bed in her own room right next to the Hood's. Ibi waited a bit, then magically transported himself from outside the door to _inside_ the door, as imps can do. He stole up to the bed, and used the sheets and quilts to haul himself atop it, since his wing would not let him fly.

Boy, did it hurt.

He snuggled up to the little girl, feeling better just because it almost felt like being loved. Like he'd made a friend, because she'd cried when he'd been hurt. And several hours later, when she woke, she didn't scream or cry when she found him nestled into her back. Instead she got up, did a fairly decent job of cleaning up his wing for a six-year old, and whispered in his large ear that she was going to free him.

And so the pair made their way along the hall, down the many steps of the wide stone staircase to the first floor, and through the vast temple until they reached the kitchen. Those slaves who were awake doing various duties completely ignored them, as they'd been taught to do.

Ana managed to get the kitchen door open and stepped out into the night with Ibi by her side. "Go," the little girl said, pointing toward the jungle on the edge of the clearing that surrounded the temple.

Ibi looked up at the child, tears filling his eyes. Never before had he found a friend who would be willing to do this for him, to allow him his freedom and risk the wrath of one as dangerous and powerful as the Hood in doing so. But Ibi knew the Hood wouldn't harm this girl; he'd seen it in the way he treated her when she was crying.

So he reached up with one small hand. She took it, then knelt down to try and make them more eye level. "Will you be okay?" she whispered.

He nodded, for he could understand her, but his type of voice wouldn't allow him to speak her language. He could say thank you in his own way, however, and so he did. Standing on his tiptoes, he craned himself up and placed a kiss on her forehead, forever marking her as safe from any lesser demons.

For when you win the love of an imp, you also win its protection.

She smiled, as did he, and then he turned and scurried as fast as his little legs could carry him to the jungle. He stopped just before he reached the edge of the canopy, turned and looked back at her. He saw her wipe a tear away, as though sad to see him go. And yet she was still smiling.

He would return to her side one day, he knew it to the very tips of his wings. She probably wouldn't be able to see him, though, as adults generally grow out of the ability. Then again, maybe as the Hood's daughter she _would_ be able to see him. Only time would tell.

For now, he was free.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Well, this is interesting. Ibi seems to have taken on a life of his own, and so Way 94 is now a companion piece to Way 93, only with the <em>other_ Malaysian guy._

**Way 94  
>Before you walk in the door from work, take some deep breaths and leave your work outside.<strong>

There are occupational hazards when you practice magic.

Now, Kyrano was in the habit of practicing _white_ magic, not the dark arts like his half-brother. And so generally speaking the worst thing that happened was that he'd get an incantation wrong and a flower would die rather than flourish. He could levitate himself perfectly fine these days, but early on in his attempts he'd bruised more than just his bum with falls from sometimes fairly steep heights when he failed.

Still and all, when practicing any kind of magic, the potential exists for it to be tapped into by something not entirely desirable. In this particular case, Kyrano had accidentally drawn an imp to his side, and while by and large he had nothing against the mischievous little things, they were usually more trouble than they were worth, so he tended to steer clear of them.

He sighed when he realized the imp had hopped into the back of his Jeep, but short of getting nasty and driving him away, there wasn't a whole lot he could do about it. He figured eventually the imp would tire of playing games with him if he just ignored him, and he thought this might serve as a good opportunity to begin teaching his daughter about elementals.

Kyrano was able to speak 'imp,' as those who practice magic often can, so he knew the creature called itself Ibi and considered itself male. He told it in no uncertain terms that it was not to do anything untoward to his Tin-Tin or there'd be hell to pay. Ibi had seemed to understand, but when Kyrano took a deep breath and opened the front door of his modest home, it zoomed inside and promptly knocked seven-year old Tin-Tin on her ass.

Tin-Tin cried. Kyrano glared at the winged thing, and only then realized something wasn't quite right about one of those wings. Upon closer inspection, he realized the right one had been broken, and hadn't healed properly. He reached out to touch the smooth, loose, leathery skin, and reeled as he sensed his brother.

This wouldn't do. For all he knew the imp was sent as a spy, and therefore had to be gotten rid of. He worked well into the night researching methods for 'nicely' ridding yourself of an imp, but could find nothing that would do so gently.

And reasoning with an imp was out of the question, because they have very little reason to reason _with_, for the most part. At least, that had been his past experience.

So he stayed awake the entire evening, never mind that he had to work the next day, trying to figure out a way to rid himself of this potential spy. He wasn't sure whether it was a good thing or not that the little guy was snuggled into his daughter's back in her bed when he went to check on her, but decided with the imp sound asleep, this might be the time to act.

So he went and picked Ibi up, walked out the back door of his home, and set him down on the ground. "Ibi, you must not remain here if you are in the service of Belah Gaat." He hated even saying the man's name aloud, but with an imp you had to be succinct.

Ibi started like he'd been pinched, then vehemently shook his head no, no, no. He chattered away in his little demonic voice, explaining to Kyrano what had happened.

It was the first Kyrano knew that his half-brother had a child. He called in sick to work, got Tin-Tin off to school and spent the day with Ibi learning all the imp knew about the temple and the the Hood's six-year old daughter. Kyrano then explained to the somewhat frightened little guy that since it wasn't Gaat himself who'd released him, technically he could re-summon him at any time. This presented far too great a threat to Kyrano, who would now have to pick up house and move just because the imp knew where he and Tin-Tin lived.

And so Ibi made a high-pitched sound equivalent to a little demon crying, but understood after seeing the Hood's rages with his own eyes why his presence was dangerous to these new friends he'd made. Once again, Ibi was forced to leave a place where he had found love, and his sadness knew no bounds.

He perched atop the fence surrounding the back yard of this one called Kyrano, lamenting that he wouldn't see Tin-Tin again, but knowing for both their sakes it was best for him to go. Maybe one day he would find a permanent home, or maybe it was his destiny to wander Earth without finding a place to roost forever.

As Kyrano watched him hop off the fence, since with his badly-healed wing he couldn't fly, he felt sorry for Ibi but there was nothing to be done. Now he had to look for a new place to live in a new city, leaving his job behind, forcing his daughter to leave her new school friends behind. Because if there was one thing Kyrano had learned in the years on the run from his half-brother, it was that you couldn't put _anything_ past him. And if Kyrano carelessly remained where he was, and the Hood actually did recall Ibi and torture out of him Kyrano and Tin-Tin's location, it would be the end of them both.

So they would move. Again.

It wasn't the imp's fault, any more than it was Kyrano's.

It was just the way their lives were.

And would be, until the day the Kyranos met a man named Jeff Tracy…


	48. Ways 95 and 96

**Way 95**

**Give mom the day off once in a while, and get the kids to help you pamper her.**

Technically, she wasn't a mom yet. But it was only a matter of time.

Her belly swollen, her ankles swollen, her back hurting, her feet killing her. Yet to Jeff, no matter how much she complained about what a whale it made her feel like or how unattractive she looked, Lucille was still the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.

Their first child, whom they'd already named Scott, was due any day now, and Lucy'd been ordered to bed rest by her obstetrician. "There are still a million little things I need to do!" she'd protested but Jeff, ever the protective and devoted husband, had decided to do them for her.

Which, it went without saying, was a minor disaster. But she didn't need to know that, and Jeff's mother made sure of it, coming in along behind Jeff and fixing up the onesies he had folded too much like they were mini Air Force uniforms and less like the newborn's clothing they were, and so on.

And when at last the contractions started, Scott didn't make his mother go through too much before his grand entrance into the world. Afterward, tired and sweaty and glowing like an angel, she smiled as Jeff placed the tiny little bundle in her arms.

"He took it easy on me," she said as Jeff kissed her forehead. "Just six hours."

"_Just_?" Jeff whispered incredulously. "If men had to go through six hours of that, there would never be any children born and the human race would die out!"

To which Lucy had laughed as Scott had suckled his first meal from his mom. His mom, whom Jeff pampered as much as possible over the next few weeks until things became routine, and she was used to the up-and-down of the nights and feedings, and diaper changes. He did everything he could to ease the burden of new motherhood, in and around having to continue working, though he was on equally slippery footing in the arena of new fatherhood.

But they were learning, and they would learn together, and all the while the dark-haired blue-eyed boy encouraged them by sleeping maybe a little bit longer than a normal newborn might, or by not throwing up all over the front of them but instead waiting until they'd put him down, or by simply gazing at them serenely, as though he knew his place in this world, in this family, and was ready to take it.

Eight years later, on the last Mother's Day Lucille would live to see, Jeff once again doted on his beautiful, perfect wife, and the four children they now had did what their little selves could to help, if they were old enough. But Scott, well, his place was at his father's side doing everything with him from cutting the red rose off the bush in the garden and placing it in the thin crystal vase to making his mother's favorite ham, cheese and green pepper omelet to the buttered toast with drips of honey to the small glass of orange juice and big mug of coffee with cream.

"How come," Scott asked as Jeff loaded everything onto the tray he'd use to carry it all up to Lucy in bed, "everyone else only celebrates their moms once a year?" After all, his young mind reasoned, we take Mom breakfast in bed _every_ Saturday morning.

Jeff had smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners, pride oozing from every pore as he took in his intelligent, thoughtful eight-year old firstborn. "We celebrate your mom every day, and that's what everyone should do," he replied. "But I guess people sometimes need holidays to remind them of what's important in life."

Scott had chewed and chewed on that all the way to his parents' room, and when he opened the door and found his mother still asleep, he sat on the edge of the bed while his father placed the tray on her dressing table, scooted up and wrapped his arms around her. "I love you mom," he whispered into her ear.

Her eyes blinked slowly open, a smile graced her lips and she wrapped her arms around him and hugged him fiercely. "I love you too, Scott."

For the Tracy men and boys, _every_ day was Mother's Day. Every day, that was, until the day she was gone.

Gone, but never _ever_ forgotten.

Seen every single day in the faces and eyes of each and every one of her five sons.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 96<br>Be generous with your time, your energy, and your money. Give freely to those in need.**

He didn't do it for accolades. All these awards various organizations wanted to give him. He didn't do it to be recognized, to buy the love of those in need, to force gratitude from them. He didn't do it because it was asked of him or expected of him.

He did it for love.

His sons, the sons born of the mother only two of them remembered with any sort of clarity, risked their lives day in and day out not for recognition, for as a secret organization there never would be on ounce of it. Not for accolades, though he'd catch them smiling over a positive news report or article in an online paper. They didn't do it because their father asked it of them, or expected it of them.

They did it for love.

International Rescue, born of the desperate need to somehow, in some way, ensure Lucille Tracy lived on.

Then there were the charities they donated their money to. The soup kitchens they stood and served food in as Tracys, never really knowing if any of those standing in line might've been rescued once by the very hands that now fed them. The animal shelters they visited to show kindness to dogs and cats who were otherwise alone and unloved. The women's shelters where they landed Thunderbird Two and took the children out to see it and played with them in full IR uniform, just to give the mothers a break and the children something to smile about in the face of such terrible events as had landed them there to begin with.

Scott favored an orphanage in San Diego for children whose parents were killed in active military duty.

Virgil favored the Art of Elysium project, helping disabled children learn and grow and smile through painting and drawing.

John took disadvantaged children from inner city schools to local planetariums or even to his father's astronaut training school if they were close enough, and gave them a day they would never otherwise experience.

Gordon worked with marine mammal rescue organizations in all waters of the globe, sometimes diving into the water to free a dolphin from a net, or bandage the fin of a humpback whale, or pull a harpoon out of a sperm whale's body.

Alan paired with Tin-Tin, traveling often with her father to Malaysia to provide poor village children throughout the country with the means to become educated, with clothing to cover their small naked bodies and with the means to grow their own crops and raise their own animals for food.

Jeff was off-island an awful lot, not just for corporation business, but starting his own family foundations, donating rescue equipment developed by his umbrella of companies to local communities who couldn't afford what they needed to save lives without the intervention of that mysterious organization known as International Rescue.

They didn't do it because someone told them they had to. It was in the blood that flowed through their veins. They had the means. They had the heart, the courage, the drive. They lived to serve others, and in doing so, enriched so many lives through methods that had nothing to do with what they did under the anonymity of IR.

Many hundreds of years after these men are gone the world will remember them for so very much. And maybe they'll put two and two together eventually, realizing that when the Tracys began to age and leave the Earth, suddenly International Rescue no longer came. Suddenly more people were dying than the world was used to.

Or maybe they'll never figure it out. But the Tracys, they'll live on forever and ever in the minds and hearts of the children who'll never forget the tall, dark-haired man who pinned wings to their shirts; the tall, chestnut-haired man who held their hands steady as the brush slid across the canvas with a whisper; the tall, Nordic blonde man who taught them about planets distant to their own, encouraging them to become astronauts and physicists and to reach for the stars; the smiling, copper-haired man who ensured nearly singlehandedly that two species of whale and one of porpoise would never become extinct; the baby-faced blonde man and dark-haired beauty who came like angels to teach them there was more to life than poverty.

The sons, daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren who would never have been born had these men and women not sacrificed their own careers, their own separate lives, to save someone else's.

The legacy of International Rescue. The legacy of the family of Jeff Tracy.

The hope it still gives people so many years after they're gone, that angels really do exist. That heroes really _do_ exist. And maybe, one day, if the Earth and the human race are lucky, will come again.


	49. Ways 97 and 98

**Way 97  
>Cultivate your fatherhood Superpowers.<strong>

Whoever coined the idea that it was mothers who had eyes in the back of their head, never met a Tracy man. For the life of them, as they grew and became more aware of things around them, none of Jeff Tracy's sons could ever figure out how the hell their dad knew when they were doing something two rooms away that they shouldn't be.

They never understood it, until they became fathers themselves.

Scott always knew when D.J. had done something he shouldn't have because of little tells the boy had. He suddenly realized one evening that as much as his son was like him in so many ways, he must've given the same things away as a boy.

Later that night he asked his father about it, after D.J. had gone to bed, when it was just the two of them sitting out on the balcony with beers in hand. "What gave it away?" is what he said to the father whose hair was turning more and more white as the years passed.

"Your voice," Jeff confessed with a grin, then took a swig from his bottle of beer.

"My voice?"

"Mmhmm," Jeff nodded as he swallowed. "It always got clipped, short. One-word answers and you would look me directly in the eye, like you were challenging me, but I didn't know for what. So I knew there had to be _something_ you didn't want me to know."

"Huh," Scott huffed out with a laugh, shaking his head and smiling as he took a long pull from his bottle.

"Why, what's D.J.'s tell?"

"Oddly enough," Scott replied, "his voice."

"He look you in the eye?"

"No, haven't noticed that one."

A moment of silence stretched between them.

"That wasn't all, you know," Jeff said quietly.

Scott looked over at his dad expectantly.

"I just knew. I always knew when one of you had done something. When one of you were in trouble, needed help." Jeff eyed his eldest. "Still do."

"When we're out in the field?" Scott asked, then drained his bottle of beer.

"And when you're not," Jeff said.

"Guess you never stop being a father," Scott told him as he placed the empty bottle down on the table between them.

"Nope," Jeff confirmed.

The men watched the setting sun turn the sky brilliant shades of oranges and reds. Watched as it faded into pinks and purples until at last the disc disappeared into the ocean.

"You know," Scott finally spoke, voice a near-whisper, "that works both ways." Off his father's quizzical look, he added, "You never stop being a son either."

Jeff looked straight at him, eyes sad, dipping his head in acknowledgment. It took a while for him to find his voice. "Never thought I'd live to bury _two_ women I loved."

Scott reached out, placed a hand on his father's shoulder and squeezed. He kept it there as the canopy of twinkling stars flickered to life one by one.

To find love with Lady Penelope after so many years mourning his first wife, only to have her die while on assignment for the British government a decade later. Scott shook his head. He couldn't fathom losing Kaya, let alone both her and another woman he would love equally. He wasn't entirely sure how it was his dad was still standing.

He didn't know the answer was right there in the way his hand rested on his father's shoulder. Because yes, dads do seem to have weird ways of knowing what their sons need. But sons, it turns out, seem to know what their dads need, too.

And if he finds he has to stay up into the wee hours of the night just to make sure their father can carry on through another day, well…Scott figures it's the least he can do.

And _will_ do, for however long his dad needs him to.

* * *

><p><strong>Way 98<br>Don't let other adults get away with unacceptable behavior around your kids.**

Jeff stood face-to-face with the man who'd been after his family, after his own half-_brother_, for most of his adult life. He returned the same glare he was being given, there in the center of the coliseum where his and his boys' seemingly far-fetched dream, a worldwide American football league, was finally coming true.

As Jeff had moved to take the podium in the center of the field, preparing to give his speech about the league, the two teams from Germany and Australia who were playing the very first game ever, about his family's support and the sponsorship of Tracy Corporation, he'd spotted someone out the corner of his eye he knew shouldn't be there.

He got the idea he was seeing the real face of the criminal mastermind for the first time.

All five of his sons were standing no more than ten feet away atop the stage.

"No mask?"

The Asian-looking bald man cocked his head. "I wanted you to see my true face for this."

Jeff saw his hand slide into his partially unzipped black leather jacket and tensed. He wasn't going to go down this way, in front of tens of thousands of people. In front of television cameras. In front of his boys.

"Do it and you won't make five steps beyond where you're standing right now," Jeff said quietly.

He felt the eyes of his sons upon him, knew they were aware something was terribly wrong.

The Hood chuckled, his voice low and gravelly. It sent a chill up and down Jeff's spine. "You think so little of me after so many years, Jefferson? Of course I'll get away. I _always_ get away."

Take the bullet, hope to make it, and hope like hell the Hood would really leave immediately, sparing his sons' lives?

No way. He couldn't trust that the Hood wouldn't fire six rounds in rapid succession, each with deadly accuracy, effectively putting an end to the Tracys – and International Rescue – for good.

"How would you feel if _I_ took that podium instead of you, and told the world what you _really_ do for a living?" the Hood asked, a sneer on his face.

"You think they'd believe you?"

"People believe whatever they want to believe. The world has been searching for the identity of International Rescue since you showed up at London Airport to save the Fireflash." He shrugged, hand still firmly grasping something hidden within his jacket. "It doesn't matter whether they actually believe me or not. Once the seed has been planted in their minds, they won't rest until they know whether or not it's true."

"Disrupt our organization, that's your goal?"

The Hood allowed a tiny smile to form, eyes never leaving Jeff's. "No. Not disrupt it. Put an _end_ to it."

"But why? What do you care if we save peoples' lives? It doesn't affect you. We don't meddle in what _you_ do for a living."

His eyes narrowed and he took a step closer to Jeff, whose entire body tensed. "You don't meddle? Do you know how many times you've thwarted my plans? You and your gallant _sons_?" he seethed.

This was getting them nowhere fast. Jeff knew that within the next few minutes his boys would do something, whether he wanted them to or not. "Turn around," he said as the crowd surrounding them started cheering loudly, wondering why he wasn't taking the stage and encouraging him to do so with their chants and whistles, "and walk away, Hood, while you still can."

The tiny smile he'd been wearing broadened into an all-out grin, which twisted his face garishly, as though it wasn't used to using itself that way. "Your football game," he said, "will not be played today, Jeff Tracy."

His hand whipped out of his jacket. Jeff had only a second to register the high-powered laser pistol the man was holding before he felt himself being tackled just as the high-pitched sound of the pistol firing reached his ears.

The crowd suddenly stopped cheering as seven men went down. The immediate hush was eerie and Jeff's ears were ringing. He lifted his head and turned it to find it was Gordon who'd flattened him to the freshly-mowed almost too-green grass field.

Then he looked up as Gordon slowly shifted off his back, to find his remaining four sons in a pile that would've made any football coach proud.

Virgil pulled himself off first, followed by Scott. John and Alan, the last two lying atop what Jeff now realized was a face-down Hood, didn't move.

Fear seized him and he scrambled over to them. "John?" he said, shaking his son's arm. "Alan?"

Alan's big blue eyes blinked open. "You get the number of that truck?" he asked, shaking his head to try and clear it.

Jeff smiled in relief, but his smile was short-lived when he realized his middle son hadn't moved. He very nearly stopped breathing as Alan scooted off the Hood and the others knelt down next to them all.

"John?" Jeff whispered, a tentative hand reaching out and rolling his boy off the Hood's back. "No," he choked out when he saw the large bloodstain on the front of John's football jersey. "John."

Scott made to grab the Hood and kick the shit out of him while Jeff's fingers hovered over his still son's neck. Then John gasped, choked, and inhaled air, eyes flying open, hands scrabbling until they caught hold of Jeff's arms. Jeff blinked rapidly, relief surging through him.

"Son," he whispered, reaching out and cupping the back of John's head, helping him to sit up.

"Not my blood," John choked out, still trying to get air into his lungs.

Jeff frowned, then looked down to where Scott was rucking up the back of the Hood's leather jacket. "Shot himself clean through when we tackled him," Scott said. He touched the tips of his fingers to the Hood's jugular, looked his father in the eyes and shook his head.

"You scared the shit out of me," Gordon breathed, staring at John.

"You _all_ scared the shit out of _me_," Jeff said. He looked up to find four security guards running toward them across the field. "Boys, we've got some major cover-up to do."

They all nodded. There were always contingency plans, and while it wouldn't necessarily hurt to make it known to the world that the Tracy family had singlehandedly stopped the man no one had been able to catch for decades, there would be too many questions as to _why_ the Hood wanted to kill Jeff or any of his sons, especially in front of a crowd of people and wearing no disguise.

So the youngest four Tracys went with the four security guards as they carried the Hood to the nearest exit. Jeff and Scott climbed up onto the stage, where Jeff stood in front of the microphone for a few seconds before coming up with what he was going to say.

"Not everyone wants a peaceful, united world," were the words that came forth, echoing around the coliseum. "But as long as the Tracy family has anything to say about it, those people will _never_ win."

The crowd was instantly on its feet, cheering and throwing toys and flowers and confetti and any and all manner of paraphernalia out of the stands and onto the field.

"Let the game begin!" Jeff exclaimed and the thundering roar of people that answered his proclamation was deafening.

"Were you just going to let him shoot you?" Scott asked as they stepped down off the stage and walked toward where the guards and the rest of the Tracy boys had taken the Hood.

"I wasn't quite sure _what_ I was going to do, if you want the truth," Jeff replied. "If you boys hadn't acted, I would be dead right now. And so would you."

Scott stopped his father with a hand on his bicep just before they reached the double-wide doors, beyond which they could see Virgil and Gordon waiting for them. "We got your back, Dad." He smiled. "Always have."

Jeff's eyes crinkled as he grinned, more out of relief than joy. He clapped his eldest on the back and they continued to the exit.

He and his sons were alive.

The Hood, at last, was gone.

And the world, thanks to a game where grown men threw and kicked an oddly-shaped pigskin ball around and tackled each other to the ground for fun, had just become a little bit smaller.


	50. Ways 99 and 100

**Way 99  
>Remember the Golden Rule. It does apply to your children as well.<strong>

"You're our hero," the mother, dirty with clothes torn and skin ripped away, said with tears in her eyes as she held her two children tightly to her breast.

It's not that he hadn't heard it a million times before. He had. They _all_ had.

But he wasn't a hero. He was just a man.

"You," a young girl breathed, eyes wide as he reached in to pull her out of the rubble of a an earthquake-destroyed building, "you must be an angel."

Something else he and his brothers had heard time and time again.

But he wasn't an angel. He was just a man.

"You're amazing," his wife whispered into his ear as they fell into bed together after a long, hard rescue that had kept him and his brothers away for four days, where they'd saved over two hundred lives. "Simply amazing."

She told him that often enough, and had even before they were married. But he didn't think he was amazing at all. He was just a man.

He gathered her into his arms, placed a kiss on her forehead and held her close. All he was, was a man who was trying his best to do his job, to do what he'd devoted his life to, and to make sure he made time for this beautiful, incredible woman who hadn't hesitated when he'd asked her to marry him, to leave her home and join him on an island in the middle of the South Pacific.

"No," he whispered into her ear. "You're the amazing one."

Because what his grandmother had taught them all from an early age was true. Each of them felt it deep in their bones, and they always tried every single day to live it. "Treat others as you want them to treat you," Ruth Tracy had said. He knew it was probably mostly to get the five boys to be nicer to each other, but it didn't matter. Because it was a maxim they'd lived by their whole lives.

She smiled, kissed him softly and said, "Sleep now," as she settled into his embrace for the night.

He didn't think he was a hero. Or an angel. Not amazing, or any of the rest of the things his wife would say to him behind closed doors. He was just a man who considered himself so _lucky_ to have the family he had; the life he had; the woman he had. That was all.

That was all.

_Author's Note: The above Way, #99, was inspired by the Josh Groban song "In Her Eyes," specifically these lyrics:_

_I am not a hero, I am not an angel  
>I am just a man.<br>A man who's trying to love her unlike any other  
>In her eyes I am.<em>

_*smiles* The Way can be referring to whichever brother you favor it to be._

* * *

><p><strong>Way 100<br>Find your center and define what truly matters to you. Make that your inner retreat when life throws you a curve ball, and share that with your kids.**

He hadn't known true inner peace for many, many years. Not since the night Alan was born.

His kids had kept him grounded, and had been the impetus for everything he'd done with his life. That, and their mother's death, which had been why International Rescue had come into being to begin with: so people like Lucille Tracy could have a fighting chance to live. A chance she hadn't been given.

But still, through all the years of hard work, of building his businesses, of raising his sons, of creating a secret organization, Jeff had remained restless and fractured, torn between his love for, and obligation to, the beautiful boys he and his wife had created and the desire to just throw himself off a cliff so he could be back with her again, even if it was only in Death.

It wasn't until, one by one, his sons began to find love through strange occurrences, sometimes on rescues, sometimes in old childhood friends, and eventually started making families of their own that something within him began to change.

It happened the night he looked into the bassinet of his very first grandchild barely a week after his birth. Jeff had been up wandering the villa only to find his oldest boy passed out on the couch, exhausted, the bassinet holding little Drew Jefferson Tracy an arm's length away. He smiled as he came upon the scene, remembering the nights when he'd done the same thing with his sons, doing his best to take at least a small portion of the burden from their mother's shoulders.

He stood and looked at Scott whose mouth hung open, whose soft snores filled the air. Who was sprawled, more than he was lying down, with one arm and one leg hanging off the couch, other arm thrown over his eyes.

Those were the days, Jeff thought, when the world was still his oyster, when he and Lucy were deliriously happy and making their own family together, their own life together. Just like Scott and Kaya were doing now.

He crept quietly forward and looked down into the bassinet. Long, dark eyelashes were splayed across baby-chub cheeks. Little lips puckered and suckled as the boy with dark, curly hair slept and dreamed of pretty much the only thing he knew at this point: eating.

Jeff's hands found the edge of the bassinet as he stared down at the peaceful little face, the infant without a care in the world, born to a family filled with love and laughter and plenty of hugs and kisses. A family who would always be there to take care of him, to teach him, guide him.

And in that moment as he looked upon the new life before him, a feeling washed over him unlike any he'd ever known and he knew that somehow, in some way, Lucy was there with them now. She was sharing this moment with him, sharing the joys of watching your children become parents themselves, of looking at the next generation of what you started, what your parents started, what your grandparents started so very many years ago.

He continued to watch Baby Drew slumber away and realized as he gazed upon the innocent face that this was his happy place; his center. It was this tiny life that brought it all home to him, how much he loved and still missed his Lucy; how much he loved his sons; how he'd grown to love the wives and girlfriends some of them now had.

And how he'd instantly fallen in love with this one little baby boy who had, it seemed, the power to heal an old man's soul. And to bring back to him the woman who'd left her mark on the world even though she hadn't lived long enough to see it happen.

He looked up to find Scott quietly watching him, the ghost of a smile on his face, as though he knew exactly what was happening with his dad. Jeff swallowed, and looked back down at the infant.

And forever after, when he felt like he was losing his grip, running out of steam, or simply missing his Lucille too much, all he had to do was look into the innocent face of one of his grandchildren.

Because Lucy lived on. First in Scott, Virgil, John, Gordon and Alan. And now, in all their children as well. She would live and live and live, and Jeff learned to see her each and every day in each and every one of them.

At last, he found peace.

* * *

><p><em>Author's Note: Well, how do you like that! We've reached the end of our 100 Ways! Wow, what a haul, huh? I hope you guys enjoyed them, and how varied they turned out to be, and some of the new people I introduced or re-introduced, if you'd read other of my work previously. I can't quite believe I've written one hundred short stories for the Tracys in fifty days, but here you have it! Thank you for sticking with me through this, I really do appreciate it.<em>

_Shameless Self-Promotion: As I will always do at the end of any fan fiction I post, I just want to let you know (if you don't already) that I have an original novel called "TAKERS" which is published in ebook format only to both Amazon DOT com and Smashwords DOT com – just search for TAKERS Chris Davis and you'll find it! You can also find out more about me, my books and movie screenplays, and keep caught up with my blog at www DOT authorcdavis DOT com. Thank you!_


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